


Honest men (part three)

by Annevar44



Series: Arras:  Honest Men [3]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dom/sub, Guilt, Honor, M/M, PTSD, Plot, Porn, Prison Sex, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-07 15:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 23,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/750165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annevar44/pseuds/Annevar44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Last section of Arras: Honest Men.  (Part 3/3)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"How long have you known?” 

It was coolly spoken, and there was no denial in Javert's face. For a moment, Madeleine knew a grief so great he could not speak. Five words, he thought, should not have so much power to destroy a man.

“That your story was a lie?" he said at last. "I suppose, since the night you told it.” He looked toward his bedroom. Had he only kept silent they could be there now, their bodies twisting against each other. He would be tearing at Javert's clothes, pushing him to his knees, thrusting forward--

A brief ugly laugh erupted from Javert. “That is good. I am glad you are not a fool. What gave me away?” Valjean released his wrist, and he rubbed at it.

“A lot of things. An intelligent man should have come up with better lies." _If only you had. I would have liked that better._

Javert continued to regard him, and the rising pain of that cold gaze drove Madeleine to speak. He could not bear the silence. "That story about the stone shed," he said tiredly. "You said Vovet had planned to take me there. A place for torture, you claimed - with chains and whips and a ready bed. Arranged like that by Vovet, right on the prison grounds - while Joire walked around with the key in his pocket. No - that was the first thing I could not believe.

“Joire was a law-abiding man; you will remember I knew him for nineteen years. Yes, he looked the other way at times; turned a blind eye to corruption that happened well out of his sight -- but he kept order. He would not have tolerated any overt indecent conduct among the guards, or any threat to his authority. And so Vovet would never have done what you claimed - turned the old shed into a sadist's boudoir, knowing Joire would surely one day stumble upon it. It would have been an insane risk." He shook his head. "I could not fathom why you would lie about such a thing. Except, I suppose, to paint Vovet as blacker even than he was, and make your violence toward me excusable.”

“Excellent,” Javert snapped. “You are right, of course. It was a clumsy invention. What else?”

“You claim Vovet wanted me dead. But if that were true, he could have had his way at any time. Even after you beat me - what stopped him from taking me out of the infirmary or the sleeping quarters any night and ending me, the same as he did Montmartre? Yet in all the weeks and years that followed, he never did. He hated me from the day I came off the wagons and continued to torment me for all the years to come, long after you had forgotten me - but was it really he who wanted me beaten into my grave that day? I am not so sure.”

“Go on. You are doing very well.” Something like pride showed in Javert’s face. There was a rigid lift to his chin, and his lips were curled in what might have been a sneer.

“Then: you claimed you went to him and won his confidence. How did you put it? You said, _'I was convincing.'_ But that, above all, beggars belief. He was not a fool, and you were not one of his crew. You were known at that time as a fair guard. Why would Vovet have trusted you so much? Simply at your word? I knew him and I knew you. You could not have swayed him so easily. It could not have happened as you said.

“And then, in the end: you had to leave Toulon because Vovet turned everyone against you - because he suspected you were on my side. Again, a tale that makes no sense. You were merciless to me; you left me broken! Why would he ever suspect you of being against him?”

Valjean's rage was rising as he spoke, for Javert looked back steadily with no trace of shame. “So,” Valjean concluded, balling his hands into fists. “Pay your forfeit. Tell me the way it really was. It is late, and this is all I want from you.”

Through all this, Javert had sat with his posture rigid, his features hard and cold. Now he spoke in a hard, cold voice.

“All that you say is correct. The story I told was not the truth. So, I will leave Montreuil-sur-Mer tonight -- it doesn’t matter where I go. By morning I will be far from here. You will not have to look on me again.” He added, “I suppose I always knew I could not escape my sins, nor bury them. I am meant to pay. It is just.” He gazed at the chessboard for a long moment, surveying the wreckage of the battle that had left his king cornered and defeated. Then he rose and bowed slightly, and turned to go.

Valjean blocked his path. He said with some menace. “That is not our wager. You promised to comply with my request. I demanded you tell the truth. All of it.”

“I-- cannot." But Valjean continued to stare him down, until Javert flushed a little and looked away. Finally he muttered, "It is too terrible to confess.”

“What is too terrible -- the thing you _lost your soul for?_ “ His gaze burned into Javert. “That is what you said, do you remember? -- at your home, the night I told you who I am. I was baffled; I puzzled over what you meant. Did you think you lost your soul because you came to care for me, in some way, at Toulon? No; I did not believe it. Was it because you gave me an unjust beating? Perhaps in part -- but you spoke with such anguish, after all these years; I knew there must be something else. Something so black you invented a dozen lies to cover it - you, Javert! the honest man who yearns to tell the truth! Tell me, Inspector.” His hand slammed down on the other man’s shoulder, and his grip was iron. He dug his fingers in, watching as Javert winced. “We have been together - and I've seen you weep, and you've seen the monster in me, and you've seen my scars. We've shown each other so many secrets. What is one more?”

“I said I cannot!" Javert looked toward the door, then to Valjean - but Valjean did not move. "I have admitted my guilt -- now you must let me go!”

“Why is it always like this -- you trying to run, and me standing in your way? You cannot run from what you did. I demand an answer - I have been waiting twenty-four years!”

“No! I won't say it-- If you knew, you would--” He broke off. His face twisted. “Allow me to go. _Please.”_ He tried to push past Valjean, but the other man shoved him back hard.

“Javert.” Valjean ground the name out between his teeth; his face was terrible. “Do you not understand? _I know._ I know already.”

“I promise you,” Javert said bitterly, “you do not.”

“I do. I only want to hear you confess it.”

For the first time, Javert looked frightened. “No,” he whispered. “You know nothing. It is not possible.”

“I am telling you: I know! Will you make me say it? I have known since that morning in your lodgings. I thought about what you said, that you had lost your soul at Toulon. And I thought about what I know of you; what kind of man you are. All these weeks, Javert -- I have suspected; I have been almost sure. I have waited, and hoped - hoped you would come forward with the truth. But you will not, and I cannot bear to do this any longer, to go on, and go _there_ \--" and with a jerk of his chin he indicated the bedroom "-- when it is all lies and pretense, and you are riddled with your secret - rotting with it!"

Javert, like a hooked fish, gaped and struggled, but the words were lodged in his throat. He was gasping. “I-- I do not believe you!" he managed at last. "You know nothing!”

“I do -- _because I saw it._ I saw you.”

All at once, it was not anger that he felt, but grief and vast fatigue. He had come so far and had carried so many burdens and had tried so hard. These past weeks, he had steeled himself against the undertow of memory, of longing, that threatened to suck him back into his long-gone aching for the man with honest eyes. He had tried to take care, but had gone out too deep and the current had been stronger than he'd guessed. “Do you not remember? It was that morning. We were made to stand in the yard barefoot, and then Vovet stood by while I was pulled up to the flogging post and chained. It was late winter and the ground was cold. The mud from the snowmelt pushed between my toes. I looked at the guards, all of them circling around me - I had no idea what was to come; I could not make sense of what was happening. I saw the triumphant look of Vovet. Leschelles and that clown Natellier were hanging back, laughing together. Some of the other guards were looking to Vovet uncertainly. And then you stepped forward. You had your cudgel out, and there was a look on your face I had never seen before, a smile of sorts. There were mudstains on your knees. So strange, I thought -- your uniform was always immaculate; why would it be soiled now when it was just reveille? _As if you had been kneeling on the ground._ But why? At the time, I did not realize what it meant -- and then, of course, you raised your cudgel. The first blow you struck was here." He struck himself in the chest. "After that, you understand, I had no more time for speculation.

“But I know you better now than I did then, do I not? I know what makes a man like you take to his knees.” 

A strangled cry came from Javert. He had begun to shake all over. 

Valjean went on in his terrible soft voice. “I have come to know you well, you see. He was older than you -- just as I am. Tall, handsome. A well-liked man, a leader. An expert horseman. But above all, he was a man with authority. A man who loved power, loved to dominate others - it was a sport to him. That is the quality you could not resist.” He closed his eyes briefly, as if the weight of his words bore down on him and overwhelmed his strength. 

“And he, of course. _Vovet._ He liked young men.”

Shuddering violently, pale as bone, Javert crumpled to his knees and began retching.


	2. Chapter 2

Hope is a material stronger than iron, but more flammable than tinder. It can build a shelter to keep out all the buffeting storms of fate. But a spark can burn it down.

Madeleine had harbored doubts about Javert's story. He had thought of Javert's words when he was alone, had puzzled over them and peered at them from different sides, and had felt cold. But without proof, he sheltered within the warm walls of his hopes. Really, how could he be sure of anything? The shed, for example: maybe Vovet was so arrogant that he had truly never feared discovery. And perhaps Vovet _had_ found Javert convincing after all. And perhaps Javert, on that terrible morning, had gone on both knees in the mud to check the iron on a convict’s ankle. All these things were, if not likely, at least possible.

But there was the other thing about Javert: As Valjean had told him, some men are poor dissemblers: honest to a fault.

On the night Javert had told his tale, two glasses of brandy and the pain of two broken ribs had helped to loosen his tongue. But still there had been a shifty, uncomfortable look in his eyes as he spoke of what had happened at Toulon. There was a falseness to his words, and Valjean - who had already held Javert across his lap and in his bed, and had, in those moments, seen the man's bared soul - recognized this in a low, wordless part of himself. On that night, of course, there had been no time for doubting. He had been concerned with Javert's injury, and there was Champmathieu to think of, and above all, there was the weight of his own terrible guilt. So he had flung himself forward, determined to believe. The story Javert told was beautiful; it was everything he had longed to hear. And on that night, that was enough. 

But the next day, he remembered Javert's shifty look and was vaguely troubled. He thought over Javert's words. And his small misgivings grew. 

Then Javert had gone to Arras and returned broken. _The man I lost my soul for,_ he had cried, and there was something in the words and in his look when he said it - a buried shame, a secret torment - that made a worm of dread curl in Valjean's stomach. In their preceding week of intimacy he had developed a shadowy understanding of the darkness in Javert. And he remembered the mudstains on his knees. 

He ached to lay all the sorrows of the past to rest. He worked to convince himself that his painful history was at last coming to a happy conclusion. There had been no betrayal at Toulon, he assured himself; Javert had been fair and honorable; the looks between them had been real. Javert had protected him, even saved his life. _Javert is a good man. He has always been a good man._

A good man would never have gone down on his knees in the mud with Vovet's monstrous hands in his hair, Vovet's stinking cock in his mouth. It could not be true.

Vovet’s appetites were known to all the prisoners. He came often to the convicts’ sleeping hall in the night, entering with his pistol drawn, never bothering to walk softly. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor and the men on their planks grew tense and quiet as they waited for him to make his choice. It was always a young one that got chosen - usually one with an air of weakness; a ‘little sister’ as the argot of the prisoners termed it. Some time later, the iron door would open again and Vovet would stride to the bare plank and snap his fingers at the boy who shuffled obediently behind him. There would be the clank of the chain passing through the leg iron, and then Vovet would be gone, the bolt outside the door sliding home. Then, in the silence, muffled sobs.

Vovet was a monster, but Javert was a good man. So he tried not to think of them together, the young guard and the older one, speaking in low voices in some private place, their heads inclined toward each other as they laid their plans. 

_I went to him. I was convincing._

Vovet-- and Javert-- 

Then Javert had come to Madeleine's home. And as weeks passed a strange friendship had flowered between them, like the answer to a prayer made decades ago in Toulon by the man who was then called Jean-le-Cric. This was a joy and a thing of wonder. If Valjean still harbored a few doubts, well, he decided that the wise course was to keep them to himself forever. This was a promise he had made to himself: not to ask and not to let suspicion poison the rare and fragile thing they were building together. And he had fully intended to keep this promise. 

But then Javert had called him by his own name at last, and bliss had showered down and covered him like sunlight. Javert had looked toward the door of the bedroom, and Valjean looked too, and saw joy within his grasp. They would pass through the door into another country. It would be a land without memory. He would close his hand on the elusive dream he had once cherished, the dream of the guard with honest eyes who saw him for the man he was. There would be heat and solace there, and an end to loneliness. He would be his own self, both savage and tender, and there would be no more secrets, and he would bare his skin and his soul without fear. 

In that moment, against the sublime light of the happiness that was so close to being his, the nugget of suppressed dread was all at once too much to bear.

Javert, if pushed, would confess all. This much, Madeleine had come to understand. It was his nature: Javert was the honest man whose face said _ask me everything_ ; the man who longed to have no secrets. Javert, unlike Valjean, would always want his sins to be exposed and brought to light. 

It was Valjean who realized now -- too late -- that he would rather not have known them. 


	3. Chapter 3

Javert had stopped retching but was still on his hands and knees, his face dripping sweat. Madeleine watched. He was disgusted, but as he got used to it the disgust began to feel rich and good, like the acrid smell of plants rotting in the rain after the harvest. Finally he understood Javert's treachery and he could hate - not bitterly, as he had hated at Toulon after Javert's betrayal; nor secretly, as he had hated during these past four years, but openly. Hate made him strong. He felt tall and powerful as he considered the sick man at his feet. A few well-placed kicks might provide some grim satisfaction. 

Meanwhile, Javert wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then wiped his face against a coatsleeve. He was past caring about propriety. The mayor knew everything already. The mayor was looking down at him as he crouched on all fours like a dog, like the dog he was.

_He might hold me,_ he thought desperately. _He might._ But Javert knew he was a vile man, rotten at the core, filthy to the touch. M. Madeleine should not dirty himself. He would have liked to crawl out of sight to someplace small and dark where he could hide. But this was the mayor’s home; the room was large and quite bare other than the two chairs by the fire. There was nowhere he could go to get away from those watching eyes. 

“So, it is true,” Valjean said in a voice as final as a bolt ramming home. “You-- and him.”

Javert did not answer. He kept his eyes on the floor.

Valjean turned away to stare out the window, but as it was dark outside and bright within, all he could see was a reflection of the room -- the fire leaping in the grate, the man crouched on the floor, and himself. He looked ill and old. 

“Vovet. He was a monster,” Valjean hissed. Getting no response, he nudged Javert with his foot, perhaps a little too hard to be properly called a nudge. He was glad when the other man lurched sideways with a grunt of pain. “Did you know that? But of course you did. You already knew he had ordered Montmartre’s death over an unpaid bribe.” His lips curled. “By God. How could you have touched him.”

“I am corrupt,” Javert said thickly.

“I can't bear to look at you." But in fact he could not bear to look away, his disgust being as irresistible as rapture. "I do not know what I should do with you.” 

“You can beat me if you wish.” Almost inaudibly he added, “Please.”

“You would take that as a mercy, would you? But then again, you despise mercy.” Half to himself he muttered, “Vovet. You and Vovet. Together.”

Javert nodded. He had to say it out loud: a confession. “I and Vovet," he said. “Yes.”

Valjean grabbed him by the hair so suddenly he could not stop himself from crying out, and yanked up his head, and looked him in the face. “He used to amuse himself with some of the prisoners: the youngest and softest ones. He would come at night, take a boy away somewhere, bring him back hours later. That is the kind of man he was.”

Javert whispered, “I know.”

Valjean gave Javert’s hair a last vicious yank that snapped his head sideways, making the Inspector gasp. “What did you do with that fiend?” he demanded. “The same as you have done with me? Is that it -- you see no difference between us; one is the same to you as the other?” He added in a low voice, “I defiled myself when I touched you.”

Javert hoped the mayor would kick him again, or strike him and heap scorn on him. This was what he deserved and in an inexplicable way it would be the answer to a buried wound he carried. He looked down and waited for the blows. But Valjean turned away. He sank back into his chair and stared into the fire. _He is done with me._ And although this was also deserved, still it tore through Javert's chest. The mayor's scorn had been soothing because it meant they were still together - no longer in friendship or happiness or understanding, but still bound by the mayor's rightful disgust. As long as the mayor was excoriating him, he had not yet lost everything. And the angry voice of the mayor was loud enough to drown out the other voice, his own voice, calling him the names he had heard for over twenty years.

_Disgusting, contemptible, shameful, weak, lacking honor, untrustworthy, traitorous._ The words coursed through him ceaselessly. Tamped down under layers of time and memory, they formed an underground river of corrosion that had flowed through him since the evening in Toulon's stables, when he and Vovet had first-- 

Slowly he got to his feet. He said softly, “You may beat me if that is your wish. It is all I have to offer you. Or," he added, swallowing hard, "command me to leave, and I will obey.”

Valjean did not answer for a while. Finally, without looking around, he indicated the chair beside him. “Sit,” he commanded.

 _Better,_ Javert thought. There would be more punishment to come, and he would not be cast out on his own quite yet. He forced himself to take the chair. He was not worthy, of course, to sit beside the mayor, in his home, before his fire. He kept his eyes down to show how aware he was of his unspeakable disgrace. 

Valjean cursed suddenly. “You should have moved the queen.” 

This made Javert look up in confusion. 

“The chess game,” Valjean said. “You were going to move the queen. But when I told you that I could see through you, you moved the knight instead. You opened yourself to my offense, and threw the game.”

“I could not have gone on, knowing you suspected. Better to have it done. It is long past time, anyway.”

“Do you have other vile secrets? Is this just one of many? Perhaps you have been fucking other men right here in Montreuil-sur-Mer! Who would it be -- shall I guess? I think I know your type by now. Henri Barbon! M. Simone!”

Javert’s chin went up and his anger flared. Years, his whole life, he had condemned himself to be alone - no friends, no cameraderie outside the station-house, always guarding himself and society against the corruption that swam inside him. He almost said as much, wanting to fling this truth at his interrogator - but the brief fire went out, and he said quietly, “I suppose you have the right to ask me that. But the answer is no. He was the first; you are the second; there has never been anyone else. And I have no other secrets worth the keeping.”

“And I should believe you this time?” Valjean sneered.

“You can look at me and judge for yourself. You have said I am a poor liar.”

“By the Holy Father -- I wish I had never learned of it,” Valjean muttered. “But now it cannot be undone.” He regarded Javert for a long time. Finally he said, “So. Will you tell me everything now -- at last?”

“I do not know if I can." He clasped his hands together in his lap. "But I lost the wager - and it is right that I should pay. And when I am done--”

“When you are done, you will leave," Valjean spat. "Leave my home and my city. If I ever set eyes on you again, I will--” But he stopped mid-sentence, and grimaced as if in pain.

 _He means banishment as a mercy,_ thought Javert. _a lesser punishment than beating me to death. I would rather the beating, of course. In his heart he would like that better, too - but unlike me, he will not allow himself to stoop so low. He is a better man._

In a flat, lifeless voice he began the story. “You will remember that it was the end of winter. We had been called to help with road construction in the town…”

Valjean listened. But he had to look away -- the fire, it seemed, was smoking terribly, bringing water and burning pain to his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

_Toulon 1801_

 

_Valjean is a dead man for sure._

Through the long hours of his watch, those words resounded in Javert's mind. He was alone in this. There was no one he could go to or count on. To protect the life of the prisoner Valjean, 24601, he would pit himself against Vovet - a golden man who pulsed with strength and authority, while he himself had nothing on his side but a few months' experience and a feeble cunning. His plan was weak and half-formed; he had no certainty it would succeed. But a man must do what was just, whatever the risk. 

When evening came at last, he went to the officers’ lounge. Vovet was there as he had expected, sitting chin in hand across the chessboard from Captain Joire's friend Mirette. The card table was occupied by the usual group - Bibet among them - and Javert tried to appear casual as he asked to join. They cheered at his request and dragged over another chair. He had little experience at cards and the game started badly for him; he realized soon enough he was outmatched by every player there. Though he tried to keep him mind on Vovet, he could not help feeling sick as he calculated how much of his meager earnings were about to disappear into other men's pockets. Across the room, meanwhile, Vovet's game dragged on. The board was against Mirette but he played doggedly despite insurmountable odds. This was unfortunate for Javert - as, by the time Mirette surrendered, he had gone down in three straight hands and lost most of a month's salary. 

Vovet stood with a pleased grin, stretched, and announced he was heading to his room. Javert folded his fourth hand a few minutes later. He made good on his debts, and walked briskly toward the guards’ dormitory. He and Vovet both roomed on the second floor of the squat square building, at opposite ends of the hall. 

He made his knock firm. “Who is there?” came the curt reply. Then the door opened. Vovet’s face lit with a smile of pleasure. “Bishop! Saw you at cards, looking grim. Grenaux is a shark; you should know you risk your wallet tangling with him. Did fortune smile on you at all?”

“I am afraid not,” Javert said. 

“Well, come in - sit down!” Vovet sank onto the one chair in the room, and indicated Javert should take the bed.

“Thank you,” stammered Javert. He did not think it proper to sit on another man’s bed. On the other hand, he must be agreeable. It would not be easy to win Vovet over. 

“What brings you? I am surprised to see you. Is anything amiss?”

Javert spoke carefully. He had planned this the night before, and practiced the script in his head until the words nearly lost their meaning. “I am having a problem with one of the prisoners. I hoped you could advise me.”

“Oh? Of course -- anything. Which one of the beasts is it?” 

“The strong one,” Javert answered. “You know who I mean. Valjean.”

“Valjean! Yet, I had thought the two of you were on especially amicable terms.” He threw a shrewd glance at Javert. “He pulled you from the drydock wall a few months ago. Are you finding it tiresome to be in the debt of a savage brute?”

“It is not that,” Javert said. “Well, perhaps that is how it started. He is taking liberties. He-- he makes lewd suggestions to me.”

Vovet gave an easy laugh. “Is that all? Surely you have heard it all before. A youngster like yourself, good-looking as you are -- trust me, Valjean is not the only one who looks at you and gets ideas. You must grow a tougher skin.” 

“It is different,” Javert answered carefully. “He seems to think that I am in his debt, and so he has certain… rights. Also, his suggestions are not merely physical. When I pass him on the chain, he whispers to me about his love. He imagines I reciprocate his feelings. It sickens me.”

“Mmm.” Vovet’s eyes flashed darkly; Javert thought he must be recalling the incident of the day before, when Valjean had threatened him with his own cudgel. “I have been thinking myself that the brute is well deserving of a comeuppance.” He frowned. “But of course, we are law-abiding men, are we not? Insolent words earn a convict a few blows, nothing more. Have you tried to knock some respect into him?”

“Of course. But you know how he is. Beatings mean nothing to him; he is insensible to them, like an animal. It has not stopped him.”

“Did you have something else in mind for him? Something more convincing?" Raising an eyebrow, he added, "Or have you come to ask _me_ to take care of him for you?” 

“No-- no--” Javert said hastily. “I intend to take care of it myself; that is most important. I was merely hoping you might have suggestions for how he could be punished. I long to teach him personally how revolting I find him. I came to you only because you warned me about him on my first day. You were right about him. I should have listened more closely.”

“Indeed,” Vovet said. A crafty, interested look came to his eyes. “Let me think on it. There are so many ways to teach a prisoner respect. It is possible I will come up with something creative. Perhaps we can teach him a lasting lesson, together.” 

Suddenly his expression changed, and he leaned toward Javert. “Do you know, I am glad of the chance to speak with you? Captain Joire and I were just discussing you.”

“Oh-- were you?” Javert hoped he had not been derilict in anything.

“He was saying you were perhaps the finest young guard he had ever seen. I was forced to agree -- though it injured my pride, for I wished to claim that title myself.” He gave a laugh, then smiled directly into Javert’s eyes. It was a golden carefree laugh, and a dazzling smile.

“I am honored, sir,” Javert said stiffly. “I am only trying to do my duty.”

“Well, now that you are here, tell me about yourself. You have been here since summer, is that not so? What is it that brought you to Toulon?”

Usually Javert disliked talking about himself, but for some reason tonight it seemed easy. Vovet was regarding him with interest. Encouraged, Javert found himself revealing a little of his passions. “I have always wanted to work in corrections,” he said warmly. “And, as I was raised in Paris and have traveled little, I was delighted to be posted to the seacoast.” He congratulated himself on how well he was managing. It was important to win Vovet’s trust, and he seemed to be doing an excellent job of it. Already, Vovet seemed impressed and eager to know him better. 

“Not many are so clear on what they want from a young age,” Vovet said. “Was your father in the profession? Ah, forgive me! You were raised in a boys’ home, I believe.”

“Well-- yes.” Javert colored. His papers included mention of his boyhood education at a state-run orphanage after his mother died. However, he had not realized his shameful past was common knowledge.

“Ach, don’t look like that. It is not your fault you had no parents. In fact it is to your credit. To grow up fatherless and yet do so well for yourself -- not many boys from your background can say the same. I have always suspected there was something special about you. It is the way you carry yourself, perhaps.”

Though it was still winter and the guards' rooms lacked fireplaces, Javert felt pleasantly warm. He stammered his thanks.

“Do not thank me for merely stating what is obvious,” the other man said with a smile. “I would like to see you rise in the world. A young man with your natural abilities could go far. How old are you? Twenty?”

“Nineteen, sir,” Javert answered. 

“Then you are at the start of everything.” Vovet leaped up. “Do you know,” he said, “that I was much like you when I started out? I had nothing: no name, no connections. My only talent was for horses. I was bright enough to make the most of it.” His eyes glittered with the memory. “In racing circles, I fell in with people from the best background. They helped me leave my uncouth ways behind, and suddenly I realized the whole world was open to me.” His eyes traveled over Javert. “Pity no one has helped you in the same way,” he murmured.

Javert felt suddenly clumsy. He had not realized he had uncouth ways.

Seeing his expression, Vovet rushed to reassure him. “No, no -- I did not mean to criticize. As I said, you have impressed the Captain very much. I know he is giving great reports on you to the Director. It is only that…”

“Yes?” Javert cried out, a trifle more eagerly than he had intended. “Please tell me. If there is something I can improve upon…”

“Well… Your dedication and ability are excellent of course. But surely you realize that a man is judged on other things as well. How he handles his horse on the parade-ground; how well he plays cards; his ability to charm a noblewoman out of her skirts.” He smiled regretfully. “These are the skills every good father tries to teach his son. Having no father, you are at a disadvantage. For example, those whiskers you are trying to grow -- a loving father would tell you they should go, immediately.”

Javert felt stung. He was proud of his whiskers, which he had begun cultivating when the weather turned cold. He had been sure they promoted him further into adulthood and gave him a stern and imposing countenance. “But, I--”

“Also, I have seen you ride. You must learn to cut a better figure, or it will hold you back.” Vovet leaned a little closer, and favored Javert with an encouraging smile. “All you need is a good teacher,” he said kindly. “Do not look so dismayed. We shall meet at the stables tomorrow evening and I will teach you everything I know." 

He rose, and Javert did as well. At the door the two men clasped hands. “And I will give some thought to that matter of the convict. We will teach him some things, too -- you and I together." Once again Vovet brought out his dazzling smile. 

Javert, returning to his room, felt quite pleased with himself. His plan was working to perfection. Valjean was safe, at least for the moment. And Vovet was falling right into his trap.


	5. Chapter 5

“And that is the truth?” Valjean demanded. “You were not involved with him before that?”

Javert started. “Of course not! My God -- is that what you thought?”

Valjean grimaced. “I spent my days at hard labor and my nights in chains in the sleeping hall. I had no idea about the lives of the guards. How could I know when you started fucking him?”

Javert thought about those winter months, after the night in the watchtower when Natellier had told him the truth about Montmartre’s death. He had eaten alone in his own room, had kept to himself, had watched the easy camaraderie of the others like an orphan child out in the dark, pressing his nose to a window. His scruples had set him apart, and he had paid the price in loneliness. 

He faced his accuser squarely, and a touch of his hard pride returned to his countenance. _“A man is true to his nature_ \-- and I have told you that before, have I not? Although you went by a false name at the time. Yes, I did a lot of vile things at Toulon. But if you think I would have sought out Vovet _on purpose--_ for any reason other than to protect you--” 

This time Valjean could not doubt Javert was telling the truth. 

“They were all corrupt,” Javert muttered. “Bibet, who executed Montmartre. Natellier who was amused by it. Joire, who must have suspected but asked no questions. I was not like them. I was _never_ like them. Although," he added bitterly, "I turned out to be corrupt as well - only, in a different way.”

Valjean was silent. The suspicions that had smoldered in the back of his mind these past weeks -- _Vovet and Javert, together!_ \-- had tonight been ignited like a powder-keg when Javert confirmed that he had lied. Immediately Valjean had assumed the two had been carrying on for months. Perhaps, in that at least, he had been a little unjust.

Finally he said, “So: this happened after that day at the road construction when Vovet fell at my feet and I held his cudgel over him.”

Javert nodded. “Natellier said that night that you were a dead man. And I saw Vovet’s face when he returned from the worksite. He had murder in his eyes. I believed him capable of anything.”

“But you did not know for sure that he planned to kill me.”

“I only knew how he served Montmartre; and how easy it would be for him to do the same to you. If I waited to act, it would have been too late.”

Valjean did not know what to say. But when he looked at Javert, his mind supplied an image. _Javert on his knees in the mud before Vovet._ His stomach twisted. He had to know it all. “Go on,” he said harshly.

 

_Toulon 1801_

In winter, the day shift ended earlier so the convicts could be brought in before dark. There was still an hour of light left in the sky when Javert met Vovet at the stables. 

“You made it!” Vovet beamed with pleasure. “I have readied the bay mare while waiting for you. She is the most spirited of the bunch. When you can ride her, the others will seem easy.”

Out in the practice field, Javert mounted. Vovet walked around him, critiquing his posture. There was such an air of confidence about him - even more than usual, Javert thought, as if the subject of horsemanship brought out his full strength and glory. “You must not drag your hands like that; even the horse will mistake you for an old farmwoman. And your legs should be thus--” He put his hand on Javert’s thigh and adjusted his position. The hand lingered there - a finely made, strong hand with tapered fingers. Javert was horrified by the shiver of heat that crept up his thigh and stroked his groin. This was a _man_ touching him. He swallowed, feeling his Adam's apple bob painfully. "No," Vovet chided him. "Do not draw away like that. You must remain just as I showed you. Like this." More touching followed, and Javert was mortified by what was happening inside his trousers. He had gone hot in the face, though Vovet seemed not to notice as he gripped Javert's lower leg and showed him how to thrust down his heel. Then he slid his fingers between Javert's thigh and the mare's russet flank. "Squeeze," he said. "Grip her hard, right here, between your legs." He made a few final adjustments at Javert's calf and hip, then moved to the other side. There were corrections to be made there, as well.

Javert felt as if he were in the beam of a torchlight. Vovet's attention had a brilliance to it.

Vovet mounted his own horse with his usual grace and strength, and the two men rode out into the field. Vovet called instructions and rode in exquisite figures, while Javert concentrated so hard that he was soon damp with sweat. He had been afraid of embarrassing himself by his poor horsemanship, but it was not long before his teacher’s manner put him at ease. "Hands up! Elbows in!" Nothing was required of him except hard work and obedience; two things he excelled at. "Good - now straighten your back!" As he relaxed, the lesson became enjoyable. More than that: it was the best evening he had spent in months. He had been alone so much of late that he had forgotten the simple joy of comradeship. And Vovet, for all his seniority and gilded looks, had a way of making Javert feel wanted and likable - as if he were not such an odd man out, after all.

Just as the sun slipped away, they brought in the horses. “Ask me how well you did,” Vovet said as they were putting up the tack. 

“How well?” Javert asked obediently. He was a little afraid to hear the answer. 

“Very well. You were taught badly in the past, so you will have to unlearn some poor habits. But you have a natural feel for the animal. It is a rare gift.” Javert glowed warmly. He had never felt entirely comfortable around horses and had imagined that his uncertainty was marked on him, like a brand. It was reassuring to learn that Vovet, who knew horses and riders better than anyone, thought otherwise.

As they bolted the gate on the way out, Vovet said, “Tomorrow evening, then? We shall make it a regular lesson. A little time with me, and you will soon be one of the finest riders here.” He slung an arm over Javert’s shoulders, and the weight and warmth of it gave Javert a pleasant feeling of belonging. Maybe he had been wrong to isolate himself from the other guards; they were all colleagues, were they not? They walked back together to the main cluster of buildings, through the lengthening shadows, breathing the crisp air. Against his will, he felt undeniably happy in Vovet's company.

He caught himself. He was only doing this to protect Valjean. He was not here to enjoy friendship with this monster.

At his second lesson, Vovet told Javert that he was improving with remarkable speed. “You may turn out to be among the best I have ever taught,” he said, clapping Javert on the back and letting his hand remain there. Javert was glad the thickening darkness hid his flush of pleasure.

At his third lesson, Vovet again corrected his posture as he sat astride the bay. “It is in the hips,” he said. He put his hands on Javert‘s waist to illustrate. “You should feel the tension down through here--” and he slid his hands lower so they passed briefly over Javert‘s groin and came to rest between his thighs. “And at a trot, it should feel like this--” He spread his fingers and pressed Javert’s thighs apart, then released them, repeating this in rhythmic fashion. “At a gallop, like this--” and his hands moved more swiftly and powerfully. Javert’s hips rocked back and forth. His cock, full and throbbing, chafed against his trousers. “Do you begin to feel the pulse of it?” Vovet asked. 

“Yes,” Javert said, gritting his teeth and trying to keep his voice from trembling. It was hard to make himself grip the horse's flanks with his thighs in the proper way. A yearning looseness was taking hold of his body. He fought to quell it.

Vovet smiled. “You are coming along beautifully.”

That night as he lay in bed, he thought of Vovet. _He is a monster-- I must not--_ But his cock quivered with fullness. He stroked himself in a rough way, trying to think of girls he had seen on the street in Paris, of drawings circulated at the orphanage. But he could not leash his mind, and it followed its own dark leanings - tunnelling back to the image of Vovet strong and splendid astride his horse, with his breadth and commanding voice, his strong and masterful hands playing the reins. As he neared climax, he thought of scenes that shamed him; when ecstasy came, it shook him powerfully and left him spent and gasping on his narrow bed. Afterwards, he was disgusted with himself. There were words for men who desired things of other men. It was what the convicts had said of him, mockingly, when he first arrived. Back then, it had not bothered him because it had been false. But now-- Maybe they had seen the stain in him all along, even before he knew it in himself. 

He would not give in to his vile urges. He wore the uniform. He would stay worthy of it. The best course would be to give Vovet his apologies and end the riding lessons and keep his distance. But of course, he told himself, he could not do that. There was Valjean to think of.

 

“What was your strategy?” Valjean asked.

“To get close to him. To let him think I admired him. I saw how he had Rivier and Bibet help him with his schemes. If I could get him to trust me the same way, I thought he would include me in any plan he made against you." He twisted his hands together in his lap. "I had to convince him, also, that my philosophy toward prisoners had changed - that I had come to see things more as he did. So I-- I did things." Yes, he must confess it all, and expose every particle of his rotten soul. "One day a prisoner named Cochepaille stumbled and fell at the worksite. He was feverish and simply too sick to stay on his feet. It was not a thing a man should be beaten for. But Vovet was nearby and I-- I took the opportunity to prove myself to him. I struck Cochepaille with my cudgel as he lay on the ground, and when he didn't rise I shouted that if he was too weak to work he must crawl out of the way. And I struck him again. And he began to crawl, and I followed along, jeering and hitting him as one hits a donkey.”

Cochepaille: Valjean had not thought of him in years. He was a lifer sentenced for brigandage in the Pyrenees. He often boasted of the men he had robbed and killed, the numbers increasing with every retelling of the story.

“Cochepaille was at Arras,” Javert said morosely. “He was to have confirmed my testimony that the man held there was Valjean. I knew him at once, and from the way he stared, I suppose he knew me as well. It was another reminder of all the ways I have disgraced myself.”

The way Javert looked, Valjean had a sudden impulse to comfort him. "I spent years chained alongside Cochepaille," he muttered. "The man got enough beatings -- deserved and undeserved -- that one more from you would have left no particular mark on his memory." 

"That is not what matters," Javert said bitterly.


	6. Chapter 6

They had been meeting at the stables for some weeks. Javert continued to be pleased by how easily he had gotten Vovet to warm to him. Even before Toulon, he had never had any friends to speak of, and he had long accepted - with some pain - that he was not a person who could draw others to him. Yet Vovet, who had friends in plenty and possessed every charm that Javert lacked, seemed truly to enjoy his company. His own worth, seen through the reflection in the other man's eyes, was greater than he had thought. 

Still, he was disturbed by how much he enjoyed the riding lessons. 

_Perhaps he is not the man I took him for._ What did he really know for sure, anyway? Natellier had claimed Vovet was behind Montmartre's death, but Natellier was the type who might repeat an unfounded rumor; the more scandalous, the better. Of course, there were a few things about Vovet that Javert had seen for himself: for example, that night he had seen from the watchtower Vovet taking a prisoner into the shed, and all the times he had seen Vovet harrass Valjean without cause. There was also the boy Paquin who had died by his own hand, and the boy from Strasbourg who had died in Rivier's care - but in both cases there was no direct evidence that Vovet was involved. Taken all together, what did these things prove? Certainly, yes, it was a little suspicious. But when Vovet directed that golden smile at him, and told him he was capable of great things, it was hard to place much stock in innuendo.

 

"Has no one ever told you, what a singular man you are?" 

No, Javert admitted. He was not used to compliments, having never before received any. He never knew what to say when Vovet spoke like this. 

The older man put a hand on his arm. "Probably that is because they are envious of your natural gifts. It is a good thing you have me around, to help you recognize it."

.

One evening, Vovet told him he had now advanced enough for an important lesson: he would learn to make a horse rear handsomely, an admirable feat that few riders could master. As Vovet promised, it was not easy. By the time the lesson was over, he had been thrown twice and ached everywhere, but he was soaring with exhilaration. "Good work today," Vovet said. "Do you know, I have been meaning to speak to you on another subject. I still have not forgotten your problem with 24601. I begin to have some ideas; we will make plans for him soon.” He put his hand on Javert’s shoulder as he often did. “One thing I have noticed: you do not use your stick as well as you should. Here, I will teach you. Raise it up for a moment -- as if Valjean were in front of you.” Javert obeyed. Vovet slid in close behind him so they were hip against hip, Vovet’s chest pressed against Javert’s back, the heat of their bodies mingling. Vovet put his hand on the stick, over Javert’s. 

"You see, this is where you go wrong. Do not raise it so high; you leave yourself open if the prisoner lunges to attack.” His breath was warm at Javert’s ear. He brought the stick down in a slow simulation of a blow. “Relax and follow my movements. It should be like this instead: turn your hips to the side” -- he put his free arm around Javert’s waist, to guide him -- “and raise your arm not so high and more to the side, so” -- he demonstrated -- “and when you strike, pivot your hips forward at the last, to add force.” Vovet’s hips snapped around, so that Javert felt the thrust of them and was swept along by their power. “Can you feel the difference?” Javert, breathless, allowed that he could. 

Vovet repeated the movement a few more times, Javert so close against him that he could feel Vovet‘s chest swell as he drew breath. They moved together. The moon had risen, and their shadows were united into one long fluid column that stretched along the ground. 

That night again, like every recent night, Javert writhed with a desire that appalled him. His cock ached. Finally he leaped up and strode to the common washroom down the hall to dip a few cupfuls of cold water from the barrel and douse himself. The remedy was only partially effective. Then he looked into the dented metal mirror and frowned at his own reflection. _He is a vile thing, a criminal. Also he dallies with boys; he has unnatural tastes._

But he could not be less than honest with himself. _And am I any better?_

It was a long night. Javert slept poorly. He took pains to keep his hands above his blanket. 


	7. Chapter 7

The next evening Vovet was waiting at the stables as usual. And as usual, he had the bay mare saddled and ready. His smile, as well, was not out of the ordinary. Nor was his tone of voice when he greeted Javert.

“Mount up,” he said cheerfully. “But first, take off your trousers.” 

Javert stopped short, and stared at him in confusion.

Vovet continued to smile pleasantly. “This is the way all riders learn finesse as they advance. An instructor needs to see the fine movements of the rider’s hips and thighs.” At Javert’s hesitant expression, Vovet laughed. “Come; don’t be a child. We are both men and unlikely to see anything unfamiliar, I assume. All horsemen learn this way. I did myself, as did all my classmates. Also my past students, before I came to Toulon -- including the one who took the Prix d‘Argent at Bretegne.” 

It was hard to argue with that. Still, Javert threw a dubious glance back toward the main prison complex, which stood less than a kilometer away. 

“Are you worried about spectators? No one will come at this hour, as you have seen. And if someone does, he will take no special notice of your undress. It is a common practice.”

Javert did not see how he could object; moreover, he did not wish to be thought a child. He removed his trousers and, with some trepidation, prepared to mount clad only in his shirt and drawers. But an indulgent laugh from Vovet stopped him. “Of course, you must replace your boots first!” Blushing at his stupidity, Javert did as instructed. His heart was beating too fast and a loose, excited feeling sang inside him. It was oddly similar to the exultant nervousness he used to feel at times during his training when an examination was announced without warning. 

He glanced up and saw a single leaf sailing high above, unmoored from earth and driven before a high wind. 

“Show me a posting trot around the field,” his instructor said.

Javert complied. The chill evening air pricked at him. He had never before been so aware of the spread of his legs or the clenching, unclenching rhythm of his muscles as he rode. The saddle was smooth and cool beneath him. He was not hot, but nervousness made him perspire, and the friction of his movements, to his horror, made his cock begin to stiffen. Yet he was nearly undressed and there was no way to hide it. 

At a signal from Vovet, he brought the bay mare up before him. His instructor strode forward with his brow furrowed. “I see the problem,” he said. “The trouble is here.” He laid his hands on Javert’s hips. “You want to keep tension between your thighs, where you grip the saddle, but no higher.” So saying, he took hold of Javert’s cock through the cloth that covered it. It was already rigid, and jumped at the touch. Javert gasped. Suddenly he did not know where to put his eyes. Vovet stroked gently. 

“Javert,” he said softly.

Javert pretended he was elsewhere.

“Look at me. Tension like this cries out for release. Does it not?”

He could not look. However, his instructor seemed to expect an answer. Eventually he managed an infinitesimal nod. 

“Dismount, then, and follow me.”

Tying the mare to the fence, they went into the stables. It was dim there, and quiet aside from the occasional gentle snort or stamp of a hoof. The older guard took Javert by the shoulders. “Here,” he said. “Lie down.” Javert’s mind, usually so strict, had absented itself and flown away somewhere. Javert’s body was left to defend itself unaided. It did not resist. He lay still, aside from the blood-pulse that hammered in his chest and at his throat. He did not resist even when his drawers were pulled down, even when Vovet put his hands on Javert’s bare and unprotected flesh. 

Vovet’s hands were in no hurry. They moved back and forth along Javert’s length with a light touch. Javert had a sense he was being taunted; he barely choked back a whimper of need. “You are very close now,” Vovet said presently. “This is a special lesson, for my best student.” He spat on his hand, tightened his grip and quickened his strokes. As rising urgency threatened to sweep Javert aloft like the lone lost leaf, he scrabbled his hands against the floor in search of a way to anchor himself. He found no purchase. Heat rose, blood pounded, spasms overtook him. He came with a cry that would have been equally suited to either pain or pleasure. 

As the sensation died away, shame rolled in to replace it. 

Was he mad? How could he find himself like this? -- his naked body splayed out under Vovet’s gaze with thick liquid coursing between his thighs; losing control; making noises-- He could not have been more shocked and horrified by his position, had the earth suddenly yawned open and thrown him down into the pit of his own grave. Red-faced, he looked up fearfully at Vovet.

But the other man was all reassurance and concern. “That was very good, Javert. _Very_ good. Especially for one who -- I am guessing -- has never known love before. I am right in that?"

Javert dimly remembered his mother, who had loved him. But he knew that was not what Vovet meant. He shook his head, embarrassed at the confession. He suspected it proved him lacking.

“Do not be afraid. I think you will be an adept pupil at this, as at everything else.” Vovet pressed a hand over Javert’s crotch. His cock began to stiffen again. “Such an eager boy,” Vovet murmured. "So young and strong." His hand took up the slow writhing movements it had used earlier. He whispered, “Are you ready to try it again?”

Javert, looking away, inclined his head a tiny fraction. 

“Then you must say ‘please.’ ”

He formed the words with his lips, though he could not bring himself to voice it. 

“Soon, then,” Vovet said. “But first, I will teach you a new skill.” He unbuttoned his own trousers and lowered them. “Have you ever used that mouth on a man before? I am thinking not.”

Javert, naïve though he was, understood what Vovet meant. At the orphanage, when he was about fourteen, a stained book of pen-and-ink drawings made the rounds of the boys for a few weeks, until its hiding place was discovered and the nuns, tightlipped with shock, destroyed the offending volume. Javert, who existed on the outskirts of juvenile society, got no more than a few glimpses of the treasure, but it was enough to advance his education. One drawing in particular had struck him and was still branded into his memory. In it, a woman in long skirts knelt before a stern man, the bodice of her dress torn open and her breasts spilling out. The man had one hand on these, gripping firmly, while his other hand was twisted up in the lady’s cascading curls. His trousers were around his knees, his erection huge in front of her. She was looking upwards with a pleading expression, her lips parted as if in surprise or horror. 

“On your knees,” Vovet said. His voice was firm, and the words stirred Javert shamefully. 

He made no protest as Vovet arranged him against the stable wall. However, when the guard’s thick, blunt instrument presented itself at his lips, he turned his head away in fear. It was larger than anything decent he had ever put in his mouth, and the bead of liquid at its tip horrified him. But Vovet clutched him by the hair, much as the man had done in the pen-and-ink drawing. “Open,” he said. Javert tried forestall his captor by placing a small kiss on the shaft -- away from the offending fluid, keeping his lips together as he did so -- but Vovet said, “You must open all the way for it. Do not worry. You will be good at this -- as you are at everything.” His hand tightened in Javert’s hair, hurting now. The enormous cock pressed against his mouth and, with the wall at his back, he was pinned. 

“Now close your lips around me. Try not to graze me with your teeth. Ah, good. You must take a little more. Now, suck at it.” Vovet pulled him in closer. Javert, at first repelled, found that if he relaxed into it, it was not so bad. Vovet rocked his hips a little but did not enter deeply. "Good," he repeated. It was becoming enjoyable - the penetration, the dread and excitement and filth of it. His mouth was filled, and Vovet pushed a little further, just for an instant, so that he choked. "Good boy. Take more." He tried to comply. His eyes closed of their own accord, and he spread his thighs a little wider on the dirt floor. He could not believe he was doing this. _This!_ The cock pushed heavily against the back of his throat. He gave in to its authority over him. He was made for this, he realized: to service the cock of Vovet, to give himself up to a stronger man. It was right. How had he gone so long without this understanding? He was painfully engorged, and longed to press his hand against his own hardness.

Vovet began to push deeper. Javert gave himself fully to his work - he made his mouth tight and pleasing and took as much of Vovet's cock as he could manage. After a few more thrusts Vovet withdrew, stroked himself just once, then spent with a groan of delight, letting his fluid spurt and fall in thick ribbons to the dirt between Javert‘s knees. Javert felt a kind of pride - not so much that of a pupil who had excelled, as a servant who had proven himself worthy of his master's regard.

“A fine beginning,” Vovet said, ruffling his fingers through Javert’s tousled hair. "You have earned a reward." He buckled up his trousers matter-of-factly, and helped Javert to his feet. Then he leaned in close and pressed his palm rhythmically against the hot pulsing place between Javert’s thighs. This time he did not tease or torment. Within a minute Javert cried out again. He slumped against the wall, exhausted. 

“Get dressed now,” said Vovet, smiling. “Your mare is still waiting at the fence. Let us put her up. I do not think you will have the stamina for any more lessons today.”

They walked back to the dormitory together. Javert was numb with confusion, but Vovet talked as if nothing were amiss. Amid Vovet’s usual repertoire of clever anecdotes, compliments, and teasing banter, Javert gradually felt better. By the time they had walked the half-mile back, he was able to make a little stiff conversation. He felt called upon to act as though what had happened at the stables was nothing unusual, since that seemed to be Vovet‘s opinion. 

Vovet said he had to speak with someone in the guards’ lounge, and Javert claimed he was tired, so they parted ways just inside the main gate of the prison. By then, Vovet had brought Javert around to the point where he managed to return Vovet’s pleasant farewell with a polite -- though strained -- one of his own. He even was able to meet Vovet’s eyes for a brief moment. He was relieved that things were returning somewhat towards normal between them. Vovet said, “Tomorrow evening, then!” “Yes, sir,” Javert answered. He did not know what else he could say. 

That night, when he was clean again and lying alone in the darkness of his room, he was ashamed. _You let him touch you as if you were another Paquin!_ And then, speaking in his own defense, _But what choice did I have?_

He thought of the coming day with fear, and with excitement.


	8. Chapter 8

“But did you not see it coming?” Valjean burst out at last. His gut had been twisting as Javert, his head down, made his confession. 

Valjean felt enraged, though he no longer knew why, or with whom. “The compliments; the charm; the excuses to get you alone and put his hands on you. He planned this from the moment you went to his room. Perhaps it had been in his mind even before. When you went to him and put yourself in his path, he saw his chance.”

He looked at Javert, who was still huddled in his chair by the dying fire. He had been speaking barely above a whisper. At some point during his tale he had begun to shiver. Several times, he had fallen silent midway through a sentence and Valjean had not been sure he would resume speaking -- but each time he had drawn a few breaths and forced himself on. He seemed to Valjean like a man condemned to death who had waved off the tumbrils and, with a stark deliberate pace, was intent on marching to his fate. There could be no doubting his honesty. His face was lined with pain and shame. 

But thus far the story was not what Valjean had expected. No treachery had yet been revealed. This was only the common tale of a naïve young man falling prey to a schemer. 

At Toulon, Valjean had had the convicts' viewpoint that all guards were equally masters of creation. But now he perceived the gulf of power and sophistication that had separated Javert and Vovet. The senior guard’s maneuvers were not unfamiliar to him. Every time the wagons snaked up the hillside and disgorged a new load of frightened young convicts, the seasoned prisoners would circle like wild dogs, and many, like Vovet, wore masks of false friendship and made an elaborate game of seeming to take their target under their wing. The fresh lambs latched on hungrily to any shred of kindness or solace, and within hours of arriving each was following his protector as if bound to his side. They didn't see the old hands grinning and trading leering winks behind their backs. In the sleeping hall, the young men would end up chained alongside the cons who had chosen them - something the guards would arrange for the right price. The first night, the young men could be heard whimpering and pleading in the dark as the price of friendship was made clear to them. 

“It was not his fault,” Javert said. “It was I who started it. I made him do those things, I think. I drove him to it.”

“He told you that?”

Javert nodded fiercely. “It was true,” he said bitterly. “I despised him. But my flesh…there was sin inside me. He saw it. He was only giving me what he could see I wanted. ” 

Of course a man like Vovet would say that. “No; you have it wrong. You thought you could draw him in and win his trust. You thought he was falling into your trap. But you didn‘t catch him. He caught you.” 

“No!” Javert shook his head violently. "No; the sin was mine, the blame was mine. If I hadn't been-- It was me. I made it happen." 

Valjean stomped to the fire, threw on some more wood and stirred it til the flames jumped. He looked again at the other man, whose face was drawn with misery, and he sighed. “He was twice your age. I do not know what happened next between you, how you came to beat me that day. But what happened in the stables - it was not your fault that you succumbed to him.”

“It was -- it was! You don’t know!” Javert cried out furiously. He leapt to his feet. “And then," he spat, "it got worse. I let him-- I let him do things.” 

Valjean waited, clenching his teeth. His skin crawled and he wanted to pound his fists into someone. Only a little while ago, it had been Javert. Now, he didn't know. 

There was a sound which was close to a sob, but it was over quickly, and then Javert continued in a flat voice. “I went back to the stables the next evening, to meet him again. Do you understand? I could have stayed away. But I went, because I-- I wanted it-- what he did to me-- the way he made me feel." He fixed an fierce glare on Valjean. "Even though I knew what he was. Do you see now? _I chose it._ I am guilty."

He looked down again. “He was there, of course, waiting. And this time… there was no riding lesson.” 

Despite the revived fire, Javert again began to shiver.


	9. Chapter 9

“Today’s lesson will be harder,” Vovet said, caressing Javert’s thighs in the dim lamplight of the stables, tracing the outline of his quivering cock. Javert was embarrassed by his shaky, hitching breaths, and the way his hips wanted to push against Vovet's hand. “I see you are eager to learn," Vovet went on. "Undress. And then I will teach you another way to ride.” Javert could not speak. He could not move under his own power. However, he did not have to. Vovet gripped him and pulled him to the floor, and laid him face-down in the dirt.

“He said it would hurt,” Javert whispered, looking into the fire. “But that I would like it. And he was right. It did hurt. And I-- I did like it.”

They continued to meet at the stables, and Javert’s new lessons proceeded rapidly. Vovet was a masterful trainer, and knew the words and acts that broke a young man to the saddle. Javert was broken easily. He did not even have to be taught how to respond; it was as if Vovet knew a secret language that was already inscribed in his core, one that he himself had never been aware of. _To your knees!_ _Spread yourself for me!_ _My good boy. What a beautiful whore you are._

Early on, he introduced Javert to his riding crop. “Tardiness is a punishable offense,” he said coldly when Javert, having been detained managing a fight among the prisoners, arrived at the stables a few minutes late. “Never keep the master waiting.” He bent Javert over a pile of feed-sacks. Javert dug his nails and teeth into the coarse burlap, moaning, as Vovet‘s arm rose and fell ten times. Even this, he wanted. His powerlessness, Vovet's authority, the violent sweetness of surrender. Vovet made him kneel afterward, and kiss first the riding crop, and then its owner's feet. Javert strained upward toward the other thing he needed.

“Beg for it,” Vovet said.

"Please. Please may I." He was acting out a part, almost, playing the wanton as if this was a game. But was it? A game wouldn't have him like this, naked in the dirt, risking everything, bleeding and begging as he threw away his honor and all that he believed in. It was not an act but his own twisted desire, one he was not strong enough to tear free of.

“You were late; you do not deserve it.” Vovet took his cock out and held it in front of Javert, stroking it himself while Javert tried not to whimper. "But you may have a taste." Jerking his hips with a grunt, he loosed his spend into Javert's face and hair. Javert groaned in desperate excitement.

"Please," he said again, but Vovet shoved him away and turned on his heel. 

“Next time, do better," he called over his shoulder. Javert’s trousers were still around his ankles. He waited until the stable door banged shut. Then, moaning, he took himself in his hands.

The lessons were no longer confined to the stables. Javert was expected in Vovet's room every night. Also, two and three times a day, Vovet would summon him away from his post, to a storeroom or washroom where his ass or mouth would be used for Vovet's pleasure. It was dangerous; anyone might catch them. “Keep your eyes on the ground. Do not dare speak; your mouth has one purpose only.” His need was a bottomless pit. Vovet was his conqueror. When he knelt or bent for Vovet's hands and cock and strength, nothing else mattered. _He is corrupt, a killer, a monster._ He thought of this while his body strained under Vovet's power, but shame only increased his desperate desire.

"Push your tongue in further. Lick me clean. Oh, yes; you're eager to serve your master. Your training is coming along so nicely."

At night in his own room it was different. When Vovet released him and he returned to his bed, dirty and sated, he would loathe himself in the dark and promise himself he would stop. He would tell Vovet it was over. But days passed and he did nothing to change his fate. He had become lost, the way he had seen men get lost to laudanum or the bottle. His will, it seemed, had deserted him. 

He was still a guard, though work had come to be no more than an agonizing lull merely spent waiting for Vovet's next summons. At the worksite in town, construction of the Boulevarde Corsique was nearly finished. The primary task that remained was to level the cobbles and haul away rubble. One afternoon, Javert saw Vovet smile as he harnessed Valjean to a wagon filled with rock and earth, a load that would have been difficult for a team of draft-horses. Valjean strained but the cart did not move. Vovet, still smiling, brought down the cudgel. "There!" he remarked; "that will inspire you!" And when the cart still did not move, he struck again, and then again, his smile widening gleefully as Valjean stumbled but kept his feet. With the next blow, Valjean fell. But Vovet’s face shone with ecstasy, and he raised the stick again, and Valjean groaned and drew up his knees, and the sick crunch of wood on bone continued. Javert could not move, could only watch in frozen horror. _Too late._ He had waited too long; he had wasted so much time writhing and squirming lewdly in Vovet's bed, begging for Vovet's cock, meanwhile forgetting the man he had sworn to protect. And now-- and now--

 _Valjean's a dead man now._

It was Captain Joire, not Javert, who saved Valjean's life. “Enough, Vovet!" he cried, rushing out to stop the carnage. "We need that one strong enough to work again tomorrow!” Vovet thrust his stick back into his belt. Striding past Javert a few minutes later, he still glowed with exultation. “We must find a way for you to deal with your convict soon,” he said with that heated, breathless excitement Javert knew so well. “I am finding it more and more difficult to resist ending him myself.”

 _I would break away,_ Javert told himself that night, _were it not for Valjean. Once I figure out a way to keep him safe, I will never be alone with Vovet again._ That is what he told himself. But he did not know if it were true. 

“You love being pissed on,” Vovet snarled in the dormitory washroom, shoving Javert’s dripping face down into the puddle he was kneeling in. “You love degradation. You crave this; you're nothing without me.” Something had changed between them, by degrees. There were few golden smiles now, and praise was rare and had to be earned. Javert no longer felt worthy and chosen. He failed Vovet often, and was made to suffer for it. As the senior guard's cruelty increased, his kindness shrank in equal measure. Yet he knew, through his misery, that what Vovet said was true: he _did_ crave it, or at least he once had. Before he had become like this, knotted with fear and with the endless, hopeless effort to be good enough. 

“Clean yourself up,” Vovet hissed on his way out, “and clean up this mess. Report to my room within ten minutes.” There was a new lesson that night, in _trust_. It involved Javert being put on his hands and knees with a sash around his throat. “Do you trust me?” Vovet demanded from behind as he thrust in hard without preparation, making Javert cry out in pain. Vovet did not wait for an answer to the question. Javert gasped, and the sash tightened; the world spun and then went black. When he returned to consciousness, the first thing he felt was the searing pain of Vovet still moving inside him, while blood ran down his thighs.

 

“By then, I think I did want to end it," Javert muttered. Valjean had been tense and silent, while Javert laid out every detail of his ongoing debasement in a pained, stumbling way. "The way he used to make me feel was gone, and I had become afraid of him. I-- I disgusted myself. I could see a way out: I could put in for a transfer to another bagne. I still had good reports from Captain Joire. But--” He hesitated and looked away, shrugging as if embarrassed.

Valjean understood. “But: you did not want to leave me unprotected.” 

Javert did not answer, only slumped and gazed at the floor.

And suddenly Valjean knew everything. There would be no more to the story than this. All that remained - the final chapter that explained the beating - would contain no revelation of hidden treachery, no deceit of any import. Javert had always been just and honorable. He was exactly the man Valjean had first taken him for at Toulon. 

He had been amazed, in his office, by Javert's childlike trust, and how quickly he had given himself up to the man he knew as Madeleine. That was Javert's weakness. He was a good man, a strong man, but there was a secret flaw close to his core -- a streak of need and desire that he could not resist and that led him into danger. Vovet had seen it and exploited it. And he himself? He had been no better.

The words he had spoken earlier came back to him. _I defiled myself when I touched you._

"Javert," he choked. 

The other man looked up at him. His expression was dull and hopeless. Valjean's heart broke to see it. His words almost got stuck in his throat. His eyes filled with tears. 

"Please forgive me," he whispered. "Please, Javert. I'm sorry."


	10. Chapter 10

“Please-- do not say that-- You have done nothing that needs forgiving.”

Javert was upset by the mayor's sudden change. M. le maire had missed the point somehow. Had he not been listening? Javert was vile and low and weak. He must be excoriated violently and in perpetuity, so he could pay his debt. That was the only thing that would set it right. "Did you not hear me?” he hissed. “I am guilty!”

“No - it was I who wronged you. You are not to blame.” 

“I am! Why can't you see that?” He jumped up and paced the room. "I _am_ to blame, and you are meant to blame me; that is justice. You have not even heard the rest of it." He strode angrily to the window. Valjean rose and followed him.

“You protected me," he said. "You do not have to say anything else."

“No! Let me finish. I will make you see.”

 

Vovet lay beside him, stroking his face. He could feel the pain of his torn flesh and the trickle of blood and fluid between his thighs. Tonight Vovet had used the ligature around his throat again. First it had been tightened it slowly until Javert's ears roared and his lungs burned and the world drowned in darkness. Then the pressure was released just enough that he was jolted alive to gasp in agony. But only for a minute - and then again the sash twisted into his flesh and he fell down into the burning void. If only he were allowed to fall completely, to swim deep enough down into the dark, he would find a peaceful stillness waiting for him beyond the pain. He reached out, hoping to attain it. But Vovet would not let him rest.

Now, however, Vovet was gentle. “That was wonderful. You are so brave."

The soothing words pulled him back from his place of misery. He needed kindness right now, and Vovet was so very kind and good; it made him grateful. He pressed himself against his master, and in his damaged voice he tried to thank him.

"Shhh, don't talk. Just listen. You would do anything for me, wouldn’t you?” Javert nodded. He only wanted Vovet to remain like this, to comfort him and be pleased with him. Vovet understood so well what he needed; it made him want to cry. He felt the warm lips sucking at his own. “Let us talk about your Valjean," Vovet murmured. "I have an idea for him."

"That was when he proposed it," Javert muttered, staring down at his lap. He was shivering harder. "He wanted to know his power over me was complete. That he could make me do anything. Anything at all."

.

"No," Javert whispered through his raw throat. It was a protest; a weak one. Vovet stroked his hip.

"Do not be afraid. Bibet had never done it either. But he did very well with Montmartre. He made me proud." Vovet's eyes glinted at the memory. “And Rivier. It was his own idea to do something for me to show his loyalty." Running his tongue along the line of Javert's jaw, he smiled lazily. "I told him he could have his pick of anyone he wanted. Of course, he chose the weakest creature he could find; trust Rivier for that. He is a coward. But you," he said admiringly. "You are special. You'll kill the strongest one of all.”

 

“I said that I would do it,” Javert continued. “He had a plan already in mind. I was to take you from the sleeping quarters some night, into the old shed. Vovet would be concealed inside so he could-- so he could _watch._ A mad dog, a dog in heat, that's what he called you. _'You'll get down on all fours and he'll mount you.'_ Javert put a hand over his eyes. "And then, he said, there would be a pistol ready. So I could kill you afterward. He was excited by this idea: how you would look, right after you and I had-- He wanted to see your face when I pulled away and trained the pistol on you and you understood what was about to happen. 

"Of course I knew that in the shed, in private, there was no chance you would survive. So I offered the idea of a public beating. I spoke of the advantages. It would be a good lesson for all the convicts, to see the strongest among them, the defiant one, rendered helpless. He insisted that it be a beating to the death. I think he liked the idea of how drawn-out your suffering would be - he would have more enjoyment from a beating than a pistol-shot. I believed I could stop before you were badly hurt, and give him some sort of apology afterwards.”

“Then," said Valjean, "it is just as you told me before.” 

"Listen!" Javert hissed. "You don't know! I am not yet finished!"

With great effort, he brought the words out. “They chained you, and I beat you. The mud on my knees - you were right about how it got there. He pulled me behind the prisoners' sleeping hall, barely out of sight. He was on fire with excitement. He ordered me to--" Javert closed his eyes. "But here is what I have not told you. When you were chained and I was beating you--" 

He did not want to confess this final thing. But he looked at the fire and then at Valjean and made himself continue. He would not shirk. The man beside him deserved to hear the truth. 

"I told you before that I watched Vovet, that I dared not stop because he looked dissatisfied. That was... that was not the truth.”

Valjean found himself back in Toulon, hearing the roaring in his ears. The jeers of the guards gave way to a muttered swell of oaths from the prisoners, and then there was nothing but a crashing sound in his head, as if he were pinned down and waves were pounding him. He had choked as blood filled his mouth, had coughed and spat desperately, still trying to twist away from the cudgel that descended again and again. Believing he was dying, he had tried to speak his sister's name. And finally, as he splintered into blinding fragments of light, he thought: _but now I will not be buried beside our parents at the church in Faverolles._

“He was not frowning.” Javert’s face contorted. “He was _smiling._ Now do you understand? It was that special smile he had, bright as the sun, and it was me he was looking at. In the crowd of guards, it was me he had chosen. And even after everything, I still wanted--" He looked down, and said the last part in a whisper. “So, I kept hitting you. Maybe to make sure he was satisfied and you would be left alone afterward. But also-- I cannot lie. It was because I loved his smile, and was afraid to lose it.”

Turning on Valjean, he cried, “So now you know - that is the kind of man I am. I am no good. You cannot trust me, and I-- I cannot trust myself.” 

‘You said something of the kind before,” Valjean said slowly. “ _‘Men cannot be trusted; only the law can be trusted.’_ You said it that night in my bedroom, when you wore the red smock. You had me chain your hands above your head -- just as I was chained at the flogging post. _‘Men cannot be trusted because their good intentions are always mixed up with bad ones.’_ It was yourself you meant.” 

“Yes,” said Javert tiredly. “Of course.”

 _Oh, Javert._ Aloud he said, “But you did stop in time. You let me live. Was he not angry over it?”

“Yes. He blamed me afterward - said I was soft, softer even than Rivier, who had at least managed to complete his kill. I said I thought it was better this way - you would suffer longer, and live to know you had been defeated. Also, dead you would be dumped at sea and forgotten, but alive and crippled, you would be a warning to them all. He agreed there was some logic in that.” He added softly, “Of course he punished me anyway, for failing him.” He leaned against the window and put his face to the glass.

Valjean wondered what would happen if he put his arms around Javert now. Probably the man would push him away. He decided not to risk it.

“After that,” Javert went on, “when you were healing in the infirmary, I thought of how to end my involvement with him. I thought of the drydock wall, and that long drop to the sand. It seemed fitting. After all, I had already ensured you would not be there this time, to save me." He shrugged. "But in the end, I could not die like that, committing a mortal sin, when I had already done so much I had to atone for. So I made other plans. I did not want to break away from him too quickly, lest he connect it back to you. For a little while we continued as we had been. But after two more weeks went by, I thought it was safe. One evening we met, as usual, at the stables. I had planned what I would say. But I did not expect him to make it easy.” 

 

“You know what to do,” Vovet said. He was unfastening his trousers. Javert waited until they were down around his knees. He hoped things would end amicably -- he could imagine how hard life at Toulon could be if Vovet became his enemy after this -- but he was willing to take his chances. If he had to fight, or run, he was ready; whatever it took, whatever it cost. 

“Sir, I-- No. I do not think we should do this anymore.”

Vovet stared in disbelief. “What are you saying?” 

“That… it is over.” He saw purple coming into Vovet’s face and he understood how this would go. He began to sweat. Some contemptible appeasing instinct made him add in a small voice, “But, th-thank you for the lessons.”

“You would dare walk away from me?” Vovet roared. “For what reason?” 

“We are seen together too often,” Javert mumbled. It was the best excuse he had been able to think of. He had meant to speak strongly, as Vovet's equal -- but now it was all he could do to keep his feet under him. “Here-- and in the dormitory-- and on the prison grounds… I am afraid the guards have noticed and are talking. I fear for my reputation.”

“Your reputation!” Vovet stormed. “As if you _had_ a reputation to speak of! You! A piece of trash from the refuse-heaps of Paris -- nameless! worthless!” He ground the words out. “The only thing you are good for is sucking cock for men like me!” His lips curled. “You will continue to do as I tell you, willingly or forcibly. Get on your knees!”

_“No.”_ Javert waited, his body tense. 

Vovet hauled up his trousers with one hand and strode forward, fists raised. He was a big man, strong in the legs, and accustomed to winning at everything he tried. He came at Javert directly, driving forward off the balls of his feet.

Javert had lost a lot of fights growing up, but he had won plenty too. The hardscrabble world of prison and orphanage had taught him strategies men like Vovet never learned. He was quick on his feet and had no use whatsoever for the unspoken rules observed by gentlemen. 

He stepped inside Vovet’s swing, hit him low, tripped him and threw him to the ground. Vovet leaped up, snarling, and came at him again. This time, as Javert twisted away, he punched Vovet down with a blow to the back of the neck. Vovet staggered up, but before he was fully standing, Javert hit him twice in the face with relish, loving his cry of pain, the crunch of his nose and the blood that came pouring after. Vovet fell for a third time.

Holding one hand to his face to staunch the blood, he climbed back to his feet. But he did not attack again. 

Javert remarked, “There are no horses to race in the refuse-heaps of Paris. So we learn to fight instead.” He wiped his wet face against his shoulder. It was suddenly much easier to look Vovet in the eye -- especially the left one, which was swelling shut.

"I will destroy you,” Vovet panted. “Do not believe that Joire’s good reports to the Director of Corrections will protect you. I’ll see to it you are run off immediately.” He spat.

Javert had a sudden idea. “You should be careful from now on,” he said. “The Director knows about Montmartre. We spoke of it. He could not pursue you because he lacked evidence, but he is watching you. Any more suspicious deaths and he will see you on the other side of the bars. I heard it from his lips."

"You!” Vovet was blustering, but Javert did not miss the trace of uncertainty that crossed his face. “As if you know the Director! He is never around; you have never laid eyes on him."

"Perhaps." A sense of recklessness took hold of him. "Perhaps I did not recently spend an evening with him at his home on the Avenue de l’Eglise, number 37. I was not served tea by his manservant Gaston, and did not view his collection of antique pistols and the framed portrait of Cardinal Mouloise on the wall above his table. Believe what you like.” He shrugged. “I am only trying to warn you.” 

He turned and left. As he walked away, nerves on edge he kept his ears alert for an attack from behind. But none came. 

He had won. 

The next morning at daybreak, Natellier passed him in the prisoners‘ sleeping quarters, where they were getting the men unlocked and ready. Javert was about to greet him, when Natellier’s face darkened and he turned away. Javert was puzzled but thought nothing of it. Throughout the day, however, he received the same treatment from several other guards. The next day it was worse. When he presented himself for work, he was met with nothing but hostile stares. His heart shrank up in uncertainty. He was being ostracized; there could be no doubt of it. That evening, Vovet leaned close to him in the prisoners’ mess with a cool smile. “How are you enjoying your _reputation?"_ he hissed.

_Maybe it will pass,_ Javert thought. But he did not really believe it. Was this how it would end? A desperate loneliness gripped him. He had come on the coach from Paris less than a year ago, so proud and full of ambition. He had been intent on being perfect: the best and noblest guard France had yet seen, a man who would be admired by all his fellows. And this is what it had come to. 

The prisoners squatted with their meals. Javert looked forward dully to the coming end of the day, when he would get the men locked down and then slink off alone to his quarters. He wondered how long it would take Vovet to find a way to drive him out. And he could see now that it was all his own fault; he had misplayed everything from the beginning. He should have stayed friendly with all the guards. And he should have never have started with Vovet, letting the man do those things he still blushed to think of. He should have--

Suddenly, his eye fell on something that made him start. Valjean! He was back - back on the chain with the others. The big man was hunkered against the far wall of the mess, tearing into his bread. He must be just out of the infirmary. His face was still swollen and discolored, purple-green under the eyes, and there was a coarse wrap on left arm - but other than that he looked not so different than before, and Javert could not help smiling at the sight of him. His moment of self-pity had made him forget the most important thing: he had done what was honorable and just. The enmity of the guards was a hard price, but he would pay it. Perhaps it would all come out right in the end. 

_Look up,_ Javert thought silently. _Valjean! Look at me!_

Valjean looked up and saw him. Javert was still smiling broadly; he could not help it. Very deliberately, Valjean bent and spat on the ground.

"I should not have blamed you, perhaps,” Javert muttered. “But I had thought we had an understanding, all those months. I wondered if Vovet had gotten to you, turned you against me as he had done with the other guards. Told you lies, bribed you, gotten you to revile me. I hated to think you could be swayed by him. But I suppose it would have been only fair, if you had.” 

"I am sorry,” Vajean said quietly. “About Vovet. About everything."

Javert shrugged. “I brought it upon myself."

Valjean did what he was aching to do. He put his arms around Javert. 

"Do not do that.” Javert pulled away. “What can I say to make you comprehend? I am no good!"

“You are good. You are not perfect, but you are good enough. Will you not take my word for it?” 

"I am untrustworthy and without honor.” There was a desperation in his words. Valjean could see no good coming of an argument. 

"All right,” he said. “Suppose that is true. Even--"

“No! No ‘supposing.’ There is nothing to suppose! There is only the truth. Because of my--" He broke off, and swallowed hard. "Because of the weakness of my character, I fell under the influence of that monster. I lost my own will, and nearly killed you because of it. And then, it happened a second time. When I lied in Arras.” 

“There is no arguing with you,” Valjean said. “All right. You want me to agree that you have made mistakes, that you have weaknesses? Fine. You do. As do I -- and I have showed that here tonight, to you. But, as evil as you are, I will still hold you in my arms -- if you will let me.” 

Javert snorted. He allowed Valjean’s arms to go around him, and this time he did not shake them off. However he did not return the embrace. He remained at the window, standing rigidly erect, his expression disconsolate. 

After a while, Valjean said quietly, “You know, there is one thing I still do not understand.” 

“Go ahead,” Javert said dully. “Ask me anything.” 

“The stone shed. Why did you lie about it being a house of horrors? There was no need to say that.” 

Javert twisted around, and gave Valjean a guarded look. "I never lied about the shed,” he answered. 

“But, you did -- you admitted to it earlier. It is all right if you do not want to tell me… I will not press you. I just-- was curious.” 

Abruptly, Javert laughed. The sound was harsh and took Valjean aback. “Not the shed,” he said. 

“I do not understand.” 

“ _The key._ That was the lie. Joire did not have the key on his master keyring. Vovet had taken it from him long before. The shed itself was-- it was as I said. A terrible place. Beyond anything I had ever--" He looked away. "Designed to make men scream.” 

He had run hard, that day, coming in from the practice field to fetch gunpowder with Joire’s keys clanking in his hand. At the shed he had paused with his heart pounding and rivulets of sweat running down his neck. He had rushed to try one key after another, casting glances over his shoulder -- fearful of the seconds ticking by, of being seen, of Joire and the others waiting impatiently for his return. But none of the keys worked. So, cursing, he had run through them all again, forcing himself to go slower. With a sense of failure he had trotted all around the shed, looking for a crack, a loose stone, a chink he could put his eye to. There was none. The place was as impenetrable as a tiny fortress. 

Madeleine still was perplexed. "But you said you got the key from Joire. If he did not have it, how could you have known what horrors were inside?” 

Even as the words left his lips, Valjean realized the answer. Javert looked away, too quickly. 

"Oh,” he breathed. “Javert--”

Javert stiffened and tried to pull away. “It is nothing,” he growled. “It is long over.” But his voice cracked a little as he said it. Valjean could feel him beginning to tremble, like the small vibration leaves sometimes make before a storm. “Let me go.” He attempted to twist out of Valjean’s arms, but this time Valjean did not release him. 

“He took you there.” Valjean said, tentatively. It was half a question, half an answer. 

"Damn you, let go of me!” Javert, face averted, struggled against Valjean’s arms. He could feel his control deserting him, and he would _not_ do this, he would _never_ do this. It was true the mayor had seen him cry before, but that had been different. To cry from physical pain was acceptable, if only barely; to weep from emotion never was. That was the point of physical pain, was it not? That it provided an excuse?

But Valjean, the bastard, would not let him go. He heaved himself against the man's iron hold. 

"Yes, by Christ -- he took me there!” he burst out. He could feel himself trembling in earnest now, all control going, and he managed one last curse, one last fruitless lunge toward freedom, before the first sob hit. “He hurt me there! You wanted to hear me say it?” Then the last of his strength went out of him, and he leaned against Valjean‘s broad chest. His words trailed away into ragged noises, torn from his chest or someplace deeper. He gasped. His eyes stung, and saltwater began to roll from them. It was the same salt as the sea, the sea at Toulon. _"He hurt me…”_

Valjean held Javert as he wept. Javert was a tall man, lean but solid; holding him demanded all of Valjean’s strength. Right now, he was glad to be a man of exceptional physical prowess. 

He had failed Javert in a lot of ways, he thought. But this one thing, he could do right.


	11. Chapter 11

Javert composed himself quickly enough. He did not really want to pull away from the mayor’s embrace, but his pride demanded it. Other things did too: caution, mistrust (mostly of himself) and the memory of Valjean’s icy words. _When you have told me the truth, you will leave. We will never see each other again._

On the other hand, he could not bear to end this moment. 

“Will you stay the night?” Valjean asked. “To sleep, I mean,” he stammered. “Only because it is so late and, and, you must be tired.”

He was being so careful that Javert was embarrassed. Valjean blamed himself still -- for the hard words he had said and for thinking Javert even worse than he actually was. Javert, if he were honest, blamed Valjean for those things as well -- and for a lot of other things he tried not to dwell on. It was just that he blamed himself more. It was very confusing. Sorting it out might take a lifetime. Safer just to walk away. 

Still. There were those arms around him.

Suppose, just for tonight, he did not think about the tangle of deceit and pain that snaked around them. Suppose, instead, he simply sank to his knees and wrapped his arms around the mayor and pressed his open mouth where it longed to be. He could do it right now. In a single instant, it would all be set in motion again: he would have those hands gripping his hair; that cock in his mouth, that hot ache, that indescribable feeling of being possessed. The mayor would grip him and throw him face-down in his bed and hurt him the way he loved, pounding into him with his mighty strength. This time there would be no clothes between them, no more secrets and no more lies. They would understand each other and there would be no shame to it. They would be only who they were. 

Valjean muttered, “What I said before -- that you should leave, and we not see each other again.-- you must know that is not what I want. I was… quite wrong. I hope you will stay.”

Javert said, “You are very kind.”

The mayor’s shirt had pulled open a little at the throat. Javert looked at the triangle of skin where a few springy hairs were exposed. He laid his finger on the spot. It was warm, and he could feel the pulse beneath. Valjean drew a quick sharp breath. 

Javert pulled away. He left Valjean's arms empty, and his own as well. Cold regret swept over him even before he reached for his hat. Why was he doing this? “I should leave,” he said. 

Valjean, with a grieving look, followed him out into the lane. “Javert! Where will you go?”

“Home, monsieur. Then to my post, in a few hours.” Suddenly he understood Valjean’s meaning. Nearly a month had passed since the mayor had kept him from the path atop the seawall. “No: you need not fear that I will not harm myself. I merely want to be alone.” The worry in Valjean’s gaze made him happy. He could not quite remember why he had declined to stay the night. It seemed like yet another tragic mistake. 

“I could--” Valjean started, but stopped himself. _I could walk with you,_ he had meant to say. But Javert would not want that, surely. He would take it as some sort of oblique insult; a sign of mistrust or condescension. “It is only,” he continued with difficulty, “I am afraid that if you leave now, you will never return.” 

Javert did not know what to say. He bowed and left. He hoped Valjean's eyes followed him as he went, but he did not let himself look back.

 

He had intended to seize a few hours of sleep when he arrived home. Instead he sat on the edge of his bed, thoughts swirling. 

He had no more secrets; Valjean knew all. That was good. Valjean knew, and had not killed him or driven him away, and Javert was left with a curious lightness in his chest. The damning voice that flowed inside him and catalogued his sins was, for once, strangely quiet. But still -- there was no telling how Valjean would feel in the light of day, when the shock wore off and he thought about the vile things Javert had done. It was best to stay away. 

Dawn was barely arrived when he descended the stairs, stiff and aching after the long night. He had gone only half a block when he saw a familiar figure move out from a shadowed doorway and step into the lamplight. 

“Monsieur le maire!” he exclaimed. In his surprise he had spoken louder than intended; now he glanced around reflexively to see if anyone was watching. The street was empty. “What are you doing here?” 

He said it calmly enough. No outward sign betrayed the pounding of his heart.

The mayor looked discomfited. “I, I--”

Swiftly, Javert understood. “Ah. You were worried about me.” 

It was that, thought Valjean; and more than that. But he did not say so. He had been lurking in the shadows longer than he would ever admit, and now, as his reward, he was filling his eyes with the sight of the man in front of him. He had had his first glimpse of the inspector's approach when he was still far off down the street, and it had made him catch his breath. Javert, tall and straight, striding the streets at daybreak with his long purposeful steps despite the fatigue that showed in his face. All this brought a rush of longing to Valjean. Even the cudgel was a part of him. _Inspector Javert._

“Monsieur le maire,” Javert said. “There is no need to worry. I am fine. I am on my way to work, as you can see.” 

“I am glad of it.” Valjean knew he should wish Javert a good day and walk on, but he stood as if rooted to the spot. 

Javert cleared his throat awkwardly. _He thinks me weak,_ he realized. It was because he had revealed too much, earlier that night. Embarrassed, he drew himself up. “Truly, I do not require so much looking after.” 

Valjean reached out then, and wrapped his hands around Javert‘s wrists. At first his hold was light. Then, slowly, he tightened his grip. As the pressure increased, Javert fought to keep himself from wincing in pain. He remembered this feeling: the viselike grip, the enormous strength, his wrist-bones grinding against each other. That day at the drydock wall, he had been terrified that Valjean would let him fall - but he had not. And twenty-four years later, the man was still exceptionally strong. 

“Sometimes you do,” Valjean answered quietly. 

Javert went still, and felt hot and cool at once, and loose between his thighs. He thought it was a good thing his wrists were imprisoned -- he was seized with a desire to let his legs buckle under him and slide down until he embraced the mayor's thighs.

Valjean released him. “Good day, Inspector," he said, and bowed -- more deeply than courtesy demanded, thought Javert.

"Good day to you," Javert murmured as they parted. 

All day, his wrists throbbed from the punishment Valjean had given them. This pain filled him with joy.


	12. Chapter 12

The next day Javert again left home at daybreak. Across the street, leaning against a lamppost in front of the cooper's shop, was Valjean. Javert's heart leaped. He bowed. Valjean bowed in return. Neither of them spoke.

The third morning, Javert's eyes swept over the street as he made his way to work. He saw no one; disappointment settled over him like a black shroud. Well, he should not have expected the mayor to continue with this foolishness. But when he passed the square in the center of town, he saw on a certain bench a man, broad-shouldered-- He had a book in his hand, but he was not looking at the pages. Evidently he had seen Javert's approach. 

“Good morning, Monsieur le maire,” Javert said. He fought to keep the smile from his face. Valjean's own smile was so broad it was childlike, and Javert did not wish to look the same. He attempted to tame his emotions and maintain his accustomed gravity. However, he was not at all successful.

That night, Javert knocked at the mayor‘s door. He had spent the previous hour shining his boots and trimming his whiskers, then shining his boots again. On the doorstep the wait was interminably long and he knew he should not have come - a familiar thought - and had he not already knocked, he would leave now, but it was too late because already the door was opening-- And there stood the mayor; that is to say, Valjean. Looking so like himself that for a moment Javert forgot to speak and merely stood staring at him - at the rugged, careworn face, the face of a convict and a gentleman; a face that bore a smile even more foolishly broad than it had been that morning.

Javert knew what he had to say. He had thought about it for a long time, and now he wanted to get it out quickly, before something else came between them. Bursting into the house he whirled on Valjean. “We have a lot to talk about,” he said. “I do not trust you. I do not trust myself when I am with you. Everything is difficult. But -- but I-- I do not want to stay away.”

It was not the greeting that Valjean had anticipated. But it did not matter. He had his answer ready. "I am sorry,” he said. “I should never have--”

Javert watched Valjean's lips, the shape of them, the scar along his chin. He heard nothing Valjean said. When the lips stopped moving, he pressed his hot mouth to them. Valjean responded in grateful delight. His tongue probed eagerly. Javert’s hands settling on his hips and pulling him in so close he could feel the hot push of Javert’s cock. “We can talk later,” Javert muttered when they finally broke apart. 

In the bedroom, the inspector looked at him with hungry eyes. “Will you-- May I-- undress you?” he asked. Under his breath he added, “At last?” 

“Yes,” Valjean said. “My God. Please.”

Reverently, Javert peeled off Valjean’s outer layers. The lamp was on and Valjean reached to douse it, but Javert put a hand on his arm. “Will you leave it on tonight? I have never seen you bare and I-- I would like to.”

“You have seen some of me,” Valjean said. “You remember I am scarred. Darkness is better - in the dark you can imagine I am whole.”

“I like you as you are,” Javert said shyly.

When Valjean was naked, Javert took off his own clothes too. He lifted one of Valjean’s hands and touched the thick whitened band at his wrist. “I remember the sores prisoners had beneath their irons,” he said. “You wore them so long. Does it hurt you still?”

“No, not anymore. Not when I am awake. In my nightmares, yes. But in my better dreams… in my dreams you kiss them.”

Javert brought the wrist up to his lips, and pressed a kiss to it. Valjean thought he had never seen such a thing, as the lips of his guard and his enemy and his lover pressed against his mark of shame. Javert then lifted his other hand and nuzzled it, laying a trail of kisses all along it. Then he stepped back and surveyed Valjean, who could only stand exposed, hardly breathing. 

"How did you get this one?" Javert asked, touching a puckered mark along Valjean’s right flank.

To talk of his wounds was to remember misery, and powerlessness, and a past he had tried to put behind him. He did not want to answer. And if he said this, Javert would understand and never ask again. But the past was not behind him and never would be, really. Toulon was written into his flesh and his soul and heart. So perhaps, if they were to go forward together, he should have the strength to speak of it. “There was a fight,” he said at last. “It was not long after my first escape. A new prisoner just off the wagons wanted to prove himself and attacked me one Sunday after chapel. After I got him on the ground, he pulled out a piece of metal that he had kept hidden under his smock.”

“That was a failing of the guards, then; he should not have had the chance to conceal a weapon! But I imagine you defeated him anyway.”

“That is so.” Valjean knew it was nothing he should be proud of, but he could not help still feeling a glow of satisfaction, even after all these years. At Toulon, his strength had been the only thing of value that he had.

“But afterward,” Javert frowned, “were you not punished for fighting?”

“Yes. The standard sentence. _Vovet,"_ he added. Javert cursed.

It was fair, Javert thought. Guards must keep order and prisoners could not be allowed to fight like animals and waste their work ability, cause chaos, and drain the infirmary's materials. Still, it hurt to think of Valjean under the lash. What if it were this Valjean, the mayor, with his graying hair and air of dignity? Imagine his waistcoat and shirt stripped off by guards and thrown to the ground. M. le maire bare to the waist with his hands chained as the whip fell on him. 

He bent and kissed the old wound. Then he straightened and smiled into Valjean’s eyes. “You have a lot of scars,” he observed. “It will take me some time to kiss them all. You had better lie down.”

“Am I dreaming?” Valjean asked in wonder.


	13. Chapter 13

Valjean wished to deny Javert nothing tonight, but in truth he longed for darkness. 

Long ago in Faverolles he had been thought good-looking by the local girls -- not that he ever had time for them -- but prison had marred his body as it did his soul. His back was ridged from the lash, and he had countless scars from the work, the fighting, the boots and clubs of Toulon's guards. Below one shoulder blade, he was disfigured where a wound had become gangrenous. He shuddered to think of the lamplight shining mercilessly on his deformity. 

But Javert’s insistent hands were guiding him down on the bed; chest and cheek against the mattress. Those hands slid between his knees and pushed them apart. Then Javert knelt between his spread thighs. 

Valjean gripped the coverlet, waiting for him to pull away.

Warm lips and hot breath caressed the nape of his neck. Javert’s large hands traveled over the marks of the lash and his mouth moved over Valjean's skin, licking and sucking. Slowly, that mouth kissed its way down over the right shoulder blade and found the ragged crater there. Valjean gasped and shivered. Javert’s tongue was tracing the border of the old injury where flesh had been stripped from bone. 

“This,” Javert said softly. He laid a kiss down in the hollow. “How did you get it?”

Valjean thought no one in Montreuil-sur-Mer would believe the stern Inspector capable of such a gentle touch. 

He muttered, “The drydock,” Javert waited in silence, so he went on reluctantly. “A beam fell on me while I was working aboard ship and tore open the flesh. The wound became infected.” 

He did not want to tell the rest. After a week he had developed fever. Pus oozed from the wound. His strength suffered, and eventually Joire had noticed and ordered him to the infirmary, where the attendant had grinned as he took up his knife. Valjean had jerked as the blade cut into him; the knife had slipped; the attendant had cursed and struck him. He had ordered Valjean chained by the wrists and ankles, spread-eagle fashion. After that, when the knife sawed through his rotten flesh he could not buck, but only writhe and scream. 

But tonight, instead of the brutality of a savage knife, he knew the comfort of Javert’s pliant lips and tongue. They moved over his flesh, healing and anointing him as if he were a pilgrim at Lourdes. 

Javert found all his scars that night. There were many. But there were a lot of hours between dark and dawn, and Javert had always been a thorough and deliberate sort of man. 

Only once, tracing an old whip-mark with his tongue, did he suddenly pull away. 

“Nineteen years,” he said abruptly. He had suffered at Toulon during only his last few months, and even that brief time had nearly destroyed him. The enormity of nineteen years in chains, at hard labor, hit him all at once.

“Yes,” Valjean answered. He himself could hardly believe that Toulon had taken so much from him. What would he have done with those lost years? Worked the land, seen Jeanne's children grow and marry. He might have had a family of his own. The familiar bitterness rose in him, and he tried to push it down. 

“How did you survive it?” _Nineteen years._

Valjean did not want to talk about this. “I gave up on being human. It was easier to be caged when I forgot I was a man.” He wished for Javert to stop speaking of it and go back to caressing him with his mouth.

“If only--” Javert began “If only you had just served out your sentence instead of trying to escape. Five years. You would have been a young man still when you got out. That would not have been so bad.”

He did not need to be told this! He knew well enough how much his escape attempts had cost him! With a flash of rage he jerked away and sat upright. “What do you know about it? You were on the other side of the bars - giving orders, taking your ease while we were slaves! You cannot even _imagine_ what it was like for us!”

Javert gaped at him. “I only meant--”

“Do not say any more!” he snarled. “I beg of you!” 

Javert recoiled as if he had thrust his hand in a fire. He hunched and contracted, becoming smaller. Valjean's fury ebbed as quickly as it had risen. He reached out to clasp Javert around the waist. “Wait; forgive me; I did not mean it,” he said in anguish. Javert remained stiff, but slowly gave in so that Valjean was able to draw him down into the bed. They lay with their chests pressed together. 

“I am not used to talking about Toulon,” Valjean mumbled. “Since I came here, I have tried so hard to be a different man. The man I was, the life I led; those are things I don't let myself think of. To look back now… it stirs a madness in me.”

Javert thought he understood. Had not he, too, tried his best to forget Toulon? 

Now he took Valjean’s hand. He looked again at the bone-white scar around the wrist, which his earlier kisses had not been able to wipe away. How many times had he put chains around those wrists himself? He was as responsible as anyone for the scars that Valjean bore. He had done it in the name of justice and duty, and he could not regret it. But for Valjean, did that make any difference?

Valjean pulled him closer. “I am not as good a man as I should be,” he whispered. “And to you I have shown the worst that is in me. I know now that you deserved the best, instead.”

“Perhaps it will get easier, with time,” Javert said carefully. He did not know if this would prove true. He only hoped.

Valjean closed his eyes. “I have to try harder. I should always be kind. I should always be gentle. I should follow the example of the Bishop of Digne. He bought my soul for God, and I owe him everything. Everything! I must never forget that.” He clenched his hands into fists, and spoke more rapidly, like a child reciting his catechism lesson under the gaze of an angry nun. “I should always be charitable; I should return rudeness with courtesy and cruelty with kindness; I should be humble; I should put others before myself; I should never raise my voice; I should strive to elevate my fellow man; I should always--”

Javert, for the second time that night, put a rough kiss on Valjean‘s lips to silence him. “Stop,” he hissed. “You are talking like M. Madeleine.”

“I _am_ M. Madeleine!” 

“But you are not,” Javert said curtly. “You are Jean Valjean.”

“No-- no--! Valjean was bitter and violent and vengeful - the kind of man who contemplated the murder of a priest, and robbed a boy along the roadside. I must be better than that.”

Javert gazed at Valjean for a long while. Finally he said, “I knew him. I knew Jean Valjean. I remember him well -- perhaps better now than you do. I know what he was like before Toulon left its mark on him. His lot was hard, but he was a decent man.”

“I am not sure of that.”

Javert shook his head. “Listen to me. I will not give you away or turn you in; we both know that. You can continue to be Madeleine in front of everyone else, forever..” He took Valjean’s face between his hands. “But not with me; not ever again. I know you. I have seen all your scars, and kissed them. The man you were then was good enough for me. I watched him. I thought of him. I wanted him, and I still do."

A lump burned in Valjean's throat. “And you. Javert, the just guard. The most honorable man at Toulon. One who believed even a thief like me deserved justice and a chance at redemption.”

He took Javert in his arms and embraced him fiercely. He thought of his old dream: he and Javert at a table in a cottage. They had come to Toulon by different roads and left it separately, but the prison had left its scars on them both. Who else could ever know and understand him as Javert did? And who but he could hope to know Javert? 

He remembered something that marred the happiness of the moment. He did not want to say it aloud, knowing it would hurt Javert to hear it. But - selfishly perhaps - he did not want the burden of another secret. “He was promoted. A few years after you left - to another bagne, to be captain of the guards. They say he was offered even a higher position, in Paris, at the Department Centrale for corrections. But turned it down."

Javert's hands tightened on the coverlet. "He liked doing a guard's work," he said at last. "It suited his purposes, better than Paris would have done. I wonder--" He left the sentence unfinished, but Valjean understood. _I wonder what he is doing there - as captain of the guards._

After a moment he tightened his arms around Valjean. “It is over. We have survived Toulon," he said. "Both of us.”

“By the grace of God. We have even survived each other,” Valjean answered. They both laughed a little. It was pained laughter.

“Thus far,” Javert added. And they gazed at each other in silence.


	14. Chapter 14

They lay back on the bed. They were atop the coverlet and the lamplight fell on them both. 

“I have no more secrets now,” said Javert. “You know everything. It feels… strange.”

Valjean kissed him under his jaw. “That is not true. You have thousands more. You have never told me about your years before Toulon, and after. Your dreams, your opinions. We will argue some more about charity and mercy. You will tell me, finally, why you always castle your king so early in every game.” He smiled boyishly. Years of cares and deprivation seemed to fall away from him. “I will spend a lifetime learning your secrets, if you will let me.” He closed his hand around Javert’s cock and delighted to feel the rising flesh and the moan which followed.

Javert pulled Valjean’s face close to his own and pressed their open lips together. Valjean’s tongue entered and pushed into him, stroking the roof of his mouth, exploring boldly. Javert touched Valjean and teased him into stiffness. They strained against each other, chest and thighs and hips pushing as if trying to merge. Heat swelled between them. Then Valjean wrapped his hands around Javert’s hips and pulled him even closer. He slid a finger into the hollow behind Javert’s balls. 

Javert parted his thighs to ease the way. “We have never lain together in the light. And I have never been like this with Jean Valjean, only with M. Madeleine, le maire.” He kissed Valjean’s chest and rocked his hips forward and back, feeling Valjean’s hardness push against his own, Valjean’s hips answering him thrust for thrust. 

“I have hurt you, though,” said Valjean. He hesitated. “I am afraid of doing so again.”

Javert frowned. “You know me,” he answered with difficulty. “I like the way you-- “ He felt himself begin to blush, and this time there was no darkness to hide it. “These things are hard to speak of,” he muttered. 

“Javert, I cannot hurt you anymore. You deserve better.”

Javert felt a chill, and pulled away just a fraction. He was remembering their first nights together, when M. le maire had overwhelmed and broken him until he was not himself, only a body weeping in surrender. He longed to have that again. But was it not what the mayor wanted? He was ashamed to want, and be refused. 

“Please understand,” Valjean said. He stroked Javert's flanks.

“Did you not enjoy it, then?” Javert said in a choked voice. “But it was you who started it. I thought it pleased you, the things-- the things we did.”

“I was angry then and wanted revenge. Everything has changed. It is different.”

Abruptly, Javert pushed Valjean onto his back and knelt astride him. Frustration made him reckless. “You liked it. Just as I did." Angrily he ground his hips against Valjean. 

Valjean bucked against him needily. “Just now it is you who is making me suffer,” he groaned. “Yes - it is true; I liked it! But I left marks on you. I was like a beast.”

“I wanted those marks.” He had to look away as he confessed it. _Marks that made me know I was yours._. 

“Javert, I can't. I have already wronged you too many times.”

“That is the saintly Madeleine talking again!”

Valjean could hear the bitterness in his voice, and it grieved him. He was still suffering exquisite torment from the relentless grind of Javert’s hips. His urgency demanded relief, and in truth he could not keep himself from thinking of the delight of having Javert’s body under his power. He longed to drive Javert down onto his knees and see those pleading eyes look up at him while he took possession of that mouth. To strike him - yes, to beat him - to free himself from the stifling mask of virtue worn by Madeleine and be a brute as he had been at Toulon, and revel in it, and avenge himself for all the injustices he had suffered. And then, afterwards: to be still loved and forgiven. To be washed in tenderness, and to hold and comfort his adored one, and stroke him gently, and bring him ecstasy.

But it would not be right. He could not let himself hurt Javert again. 

“Listen,” Javert snarled. “I will tell you something. At Toulon I used to think of you. At first it was only with respect, but later -- after you saved me -- it was more than that. The way you stared at me, in irons and dripping sweat, coming in from the worksite at days’ end. Stoic and strong. Do you want to know how I imagined it would be between us?” He put his lips against Valjean’s ear. “Close your eyes and I will tell you.”

Valjean closed his eyes. The smells and sounds of Toulon came rushing back to him. He could imagine the collar and chain, the grinding sound of the prison gate swinging open at dusk to let the prisoners in. He could see Javert there, watching him -- him alone -- with the last rays of the sun glinting off his rifle. 

Javert went on. “It is late when I enter the sleeping hall. The hall is dark, but I can find your place with ease - I have thought of it so many times. Quietly, I go to you and unlock your irons. I am thinking that I want you to sleep in freedom, just one time.” He kissed Valjean hungrily. “I watch you for a while. Finally I turn away. I don't have my weapon out. I am not concerned - everyone else is chained, and you are asleep. ”

Valjean could imagine it. The cold, pitiless plank beneath him; all the forlorn sounds of the huge hall where men moaned and cursed even in their sleep, rattling their chains as they tossed in comfortless slumber. Javert would descend into that hellish half-world like an angel from above, taunting him with a taste of freedom. It would be agony to lie so close to what he wanted but was not allowed to touch. The youthful strength, the honest eyes, the forbidden uniform, the flesh restrained within. 

He pushed his fingers into Javert’s mouth. “Suck them,” he said. Javert opened and sucked with abandon, drawing three fingers fully into his mouth, and moaning around them until Valjean drew them out. “What happens next?” He slid his hands down the small of Javert's back, then down his cleft.

Javert felt the wet fingers teasing the rim of his hole. His small muscles shivered under their touch, and he rubbed himself harder against Valjean’s cock. One finger pushed inside him, hard enough to hurt. _This,_ he thought. _More._

He continued: “I turn to go. It is late, and my own bed in the guards' dormitory is waiting. I am careless. Then there is a noise behind me and it happens all at once. One hand on my throat, threatening to crush my windpipe. Another over my mouth. I can barely struggle; your strength is too much for me. You drag me down onto the plank beside you.”

 _It should have happened that way, just once,_ Valjean thought. It would have been a memory to sustain him for all the years remaining. 

“You thought you could remove my chains," he growled. "You thought I was safe, like a tame pup." He pushed his finger deeper into Javert, feeling the muscles clench around him. "I woke when you entered the sleeping hall. I have been lying in wait for you." He thrust a second finger into Javert, stretching him, watching him grit his teeth against the pain. "I could take your pistol and kill you and scale the wall. But there's something else I want instead. For a long time I have wanted to do it to you.” He twisted his fingers savagely. Javert gasped, arched his hips, and pressed his mouth against Valjean’s neck. Valjean thrust his fingers deeper, while, in one powerful motion, he threw Javert over onto his back. "You're afraid. I take your gun. Your authority, gone. You are the prisoner now." His cock throbbed, trapped between their bodies -- it was a good, hot place but it was not enough for Valjean, and he was going mad thinking of the other places where he longed to sink his length. "You are thinking that perhaps if you plead, I will show some mercy."

“I want no mercy,” Javert said, raising his chin proudly. “I will fight you.” 

Valjean laughed in a low, dangerous way. “You have no chance against me, so you'll do as you're told - or I swear, I'll take the keys from your waist and free every prisoner here. You understand, now, what is going to happen on this filthy wood plank. You know how helpless you will be to stop it." He licked Javert's jaw. "I'll hold you down. You will take what you are forced to take.” He moved Javert's hand to his cock and forced the other man to grip it. "Feel it. Soon it will tear you open." 

Javert dug his heels into Valjean‘s back. “Please,” he said, “please, Valjean -- do not do that to me--”

“Oh - _now_ you cry for mercy! It is too late. You people turned me into a beast; and I'll act like a beast - and yes, you will take it all, my whole cock stuffed into you, and no begging will save you.”

Javert felt a third finger against his hole. A moment of sharp pain made him bite into Valjean’s shoulder with a cry. “You hold me down,” he gasped. “You thrust your knee between my legs. I try to fight you off, but it is impossible. Your weight on me; your strength -- they are too great.”

Valjean enjoyed the shuddering gasps he drew from Javert as he pushed his fingers in and out. He put his lips against Javert’s ear. “Shut up,” he said harshly. "Be quiet while I use you, because the other prisoners are stirring. Make any noise, and they will wake. Do you want your humiliation witnessed? Maybe that is what you came for. You hoped for this, when you unchained me. I can smell it on you.”

Javert writhed as if to pull away, but he was gripped too tightly. “It is not true! I follow the law. Only the law!" 

Valjean twisted Javert's arm with his free hand, making the other man grimace and struggle against him. “Admit it, guard. Tell me the truth or I will chain you in my place and escape, and you'll be found in the morning: still hard, still aching to be filled.” He pulled his fingers out all at once, Javert moaned. Valjean lined up his cock at Javert’s opening, rubbing its head around the rim. “You long to be my whore. Confess it, if you want me to give you what you need.” 

Javert arched his back, thrusting upward. “Yes-- yes-- ! You know me; it is why I came. For this--” The cock butted at his hole but did not enter. Javert thrust against it, moaning. In desperation he reached for his own agonized flesh.

“That is not allowed,” said Valjean -- but his tone had changed; now his voice was hoarse and tender. He pulled Javert’s hand away and pinned both his wrists above his head. “Are you ready for me?” he whispered.

“Please, you torment me.” 

Javert whimpered as the head of Valjean’s cock stretched him wide open. He felt the hardness enter. It hurt but he craved the pain of it, and the unspeakable feeling of being known and invaded and possessed. His body submitted helplessly as Valjean spread him by force, centimeter by centimeter, entering him slowly and deeply with so much power he could hardly bear it. 

“Good,” Valjean groaned. “Good and tight. I knew you could be made to take my whole length. Are you ready to be broken on my cock?” He bore down even harder, until his prisoner moaned and writhed. 

Javert dug his fingers into the solid muscle of Valjean’s shoulders. He gasped and hung on, as Valjean’s driving hips carried him along in a relentless rhythm. “Do you like it? Do you want more?” Valjean demanded. 

“Yes -- please -- do not stop--”

Valjean stroked Javert’s cock in time to his violent thrusts. “You take me so well, guard,” he said insolently. "You disgrace yourself." 

“I will not last,” Javert said through gritted teeth. “I can feel it -- your strength moving inside me.” 

Valjean pulled out suddenly, leaving Javert empty and reaching for him with a moan. "No-- please--"

"Are you mine?" He shoved Javert's legs farther apart. "Say it. Swear that you are mine."

"Yes -- yours; all yours. Please; I need it. Let me have it back."

Valjean grinned and entered roughly with his full strength. A few more hard thrusts, and he finished in a hot blaze. Then he gave Javert’s cock his full attention until Javert, too, convulsed, stiffening and clinging hard and burying his face in Valjean's chest and crying out his name - his true name. Then they both fell back on the bed, gasping. 

Valjean recovered first. He eased himself out of Javert. “By all that is holy,” he said. “You are too much for me.”

“It is the other way, entirely,” Javert said. 

 

With time, their bodies returned to something close to normal. Valjean bent over Javert and covered his face with kisses. 

Javert kissed him back. At first he was warm and lazy and content. Then he began thinking. He traced the hollows above Valjean’s collarbone. He chewed at the inside of his own cheek. Finally he muttered, “We still have many things to discuss.”

“A lifetime of them,” Valjean agreed. His eyes were closed and he was nearly asleep. 

“What happened in Arras -- that must never happen again. You must never interfere with me like that, or my work. Or we cannot be together.“

Valjean’s mind was drifting out on a warm faraway sea. “I understand,“ he mumbled. “Tomorrow we will talk and settle everything. But tonight -- tonight I will sleep with your bare skin against mine, and when I wake you will still be beside me.” 

He reached for Javert’s wrists, and clasped them as he had done a few mornings before in the street outside Javert’s home. 

Javert turned his hands over so he could grip Valjean’s wrists in return. It was a gesture they had shared long ago; he did not think Valjean would remember it. 

But Valjean’s eyes flew open immediately. He gazed at Javert with pure delight. “That day at the worksite in town, building the roadbed -- I lay down my shovel and you came to me; we clasped each other’s wrists like this. I have never forgotten. On that day, I knew God had not turned his face from me.”

“It felt like a promise,” said Javert. “That we had regard for each other. And that someday, after Toulon, we would know each other as free men.”

Valjean pulled Javert close. They settled into the curve of each other’s bodies, and slept. 

 


End file.
